The Night of the Greek Tragedy
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: The highlights of a scientific conference in Denver include archaeological treasures from a recent dig in Asia Minor, with Our Heroes in charge of security. But it isn't long before the treasure proves to be other than expected — and soon after that, the first body falls.
1. Teaser

**Teaser**

Artemus Gordon put the finishing touches on the display case, turned on the alarm mechanism, then stepped back and tripped it. Instantly the entire case plummeted through the floor, the trap door it had descended through snapping back into place to block anyone from reaching the case and its contents.

"Perfect," said Artie with a grin. He crossed the room to pull the hidden reset lever and watched as the showcase made its slow ascent back up through the floor. "Ready for all those shiny little baubles," he said to the as-yet empty case as he made sure the trap door was completely closed again. Leaving the alarm off for the time being, he nodded to the hand-picked guards, then wandered off in the direction of the hotel lobby to wait for his partner James West to show up with the special guests.

Artie had already been in Denver for a week, going over every aspect of security in advance of the scientific conference. There were papers to be given on many topics — physics, astronomy, chemistry, electricity — and how Artie would have loved to have the leisure time to listen in on most, if not all, of the presentations! But he and Jim were in charge of safeguarding the keynote speaker, Professor Achilles Bracewell, and that would no doubt mean no leisure time whatsoever all week.

Prof Bracewell and his wife Helena had made an important archaeological discovery in the region that had once been the ancient kingdom of Lydia. Ah, Lydia! thought Artie. The legendary home of the fabulously wealthy King Croesus, the land where the minting of coins had first occurred. It was in that remarkable region of myth and legend that the professor and his team had unearthed many amazing and valuable artifacts made of gold, silver, and electrum. And it was for exhibiting these treasures that Artie had been sent ahead and had worked so hard designing and building the alarms to protect the display cases.

Jim had had the other job: that of escorting the professor with the treasures, as well as his family, across the country on the Wanderer to the conference here. And they should be arriving… Artie consulted his pocket watch. Yes, any time now.

As he moved through the increasingly busy hallway heading for the lobby, Artie was stopped by the hotel's own head of security, Dermot Parrish. "Mr Gordon!"

"Yes, Mr Parrish?"

Parrish jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the exhibition room. "Everything ready?"

"It certainly is. And the hotel room?"

"We've got the professor and his girls in one of our finest suites up on the third floor. No trees or trellises that would allow anyone to climb up there. No way to get into the suite except through the door itself and it has a unique key. Even the manager's skeleton key won't open that door, and the only extra copy of their key has been entrusted to me." The man fished it out of his pocket for a second to show it off, then asked as he stowed it away again, "Is all this really necessary, Mr Gordon? The professor's not going to be storing the treasures he brought with him up in the suite, so what's with all this folderol?"

Artie shot Parrish a glance. "No one said anything to you about Mrs Bracewell?"

"Mrs? He's bringing his wife too? All anyone told me about were the two daughters."

"No," said Artie, his voice dropping to a mournful tone. "Sadly, Mrs Bracewell won't be here for the conference. Shortly after she aided the professor in making the discoveries that will be on display, she, er, perished."

Parrish stared at him. "She what?"

Artie nodded. "There's some confusion as to just how Helena Bracewell met her end though; I've heard that she became very ill, but also heard that she fell to her death. At any rate, while there's a strong possibility the artifacts themselves will be targeted…"

"Yeah, I know two of them have been snatched already," put in Parrish.

"Right. And my partner and I are determined that nothing more will be taken, but there's also the possibility the family itself may be at risk."

Parrish gave a whistle. "Well, I'll make sure my men are on their toes. We've got a lot of big name scientists here this week, and we want to make sure everyone's safe."

"Good man," said Artie with a pat on Parrish's shoulder. Leaving him, Artie went on into the lobby and had a look around.

The attendees were beginning to arrive. With his actor's eye for characterization and ear for dialect, Artie studied the crowd, easily picking out from the general throng the scientists who were here for the conference, while also keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed not to belong among such an erudite assemblage. He eavesdropped unabashedly on conversations swirling all about him in a half-dozen different languages, automatically storing away the trivia he was picking up against possibly needing to know someday that Wilhelm Tempel was a prolific discoverer of comets or that de Boisbaudran had recently used a spectroscope to detect the element eka-aluminium, just as predicted by Mendeleev's periodic table.

And now the lobby door opened and in came Jim, followed by a little white-haired man who must surely be Prof Bracewell. The professor had a large black case clutched in his hand and was busily warding off a small troop of bellhops, all of whom seemed intent on assisting the professor with his case, and all of whom were being rebuffed.

On the professor's arm was a singularly lovely young woman with eyes like sapphires, hair like spun gold, and a figure like a sylph, dressed in the height of fashion. She too was carrying a case, and if anything was being besieged by the bellhops more so than the professor. So many young men, all insisting on coming to her aid! But Artie couldn't blame the men for hovering like flies around honey. He himself had been stunned by the sight of such a gorgeous young lady and was still, metaphorically speaking, picking up not only his jaw but both eyeballs off the floor.

Now the lobby door opened once more, this time with a crash as if it had been kicked. And perhaps it had been, for the young woman who came staggering in through it certainly hadn't a hand left free to deal with the door knob! She was carrying — Artie counted them — no less than nine bags and cases of varying sizes, shapes, and colors.

But what a contrast she made to the first young lady! Both had blue eyes, but this one's eyes were as pale and watery as a day without sunshine — and added to that, were hidden behind thick-lensed spectacles. Both had blonde hair, but this one's coif was falling to pieces, frizzy strands wisping out in every direction from the plain bun set high on the back of her head. Where the first was a sylph, the second was, to put it charitably, Rubenesque. And where the first was deeply fashionable, the second apparently knew nothing of — or more likely, cared nothing about — fashion at all. Her only concession to current trends was the bustle enhancing the back of her skirt — except that in this case, instead of truly enhancing anything, that particular bustle only served to emphasize all the worst aspects of its wearer's figure.

Astonishing! Artie knew that Prof Bracewell had two daughters, and plainly these young women were they. But such a disparity between them! Rarely had he ever seen the equal of the first young woman for such exquisite perfection of beauty, nor the match of the second for, well… for being so completely otherwise.

The woman carrying all the burdens trailed belatedly after Jim and the others with their attendant swarm of bellhops. By now the first three had reached the front desk and were signing in. As the desk clerk handed over their special key and gestured up the stairs, the lone woman reached the center of the lobby where there stood a quaint oval sofa. Just then one of her bags escaped her grasp and fell loudly to the floor.

As of yet, none of the bellhops had left off dancing attendance on the beautiful young woman to offer a hand to the overburdened one. And even now not one shook himself free to come to her aid, despite how obviously she needed help. They only stood and stared as if they'd never seen anything like her in all their born days — if they noticed her at all.

Hmm. Well, seeing that no one else was going to do so, Artie himself took a step toward her. But it was too late. The second woman had stopped in her tracks when the bag dropped. Looking around and not seeing any help forthcoming from the bellhops, she drew herself up to her full height, and with a flash in her eyes that could be seen even through her myopic spectacles, she abruptly flung out both arms so that all the remaining eight bags and cases went spinning from her to land with an impressive cacophony of clatters and crashes.

Now that she had the entire lobby's attention, she seated herself regally on the sofa, arms folded, legs folded, one foot shod in a dowdy, sensible, flat-soled slipper jigging angrily in mid-air.

And even now not one bellhop came to her aid, all of them only staring all the more at the queen of drama in their midst.

Artie glanced at Jim, who returned the look by giving a slight nod in the seated woman's direction, a nod that said to Artie, _Deal with her._

Artie inclined his own head in acknowledgement, then crossed to the sofa, put a pleasant smile on his face, and said to she who sat there, "May I help you?"

The look she shot him was sharp enough to cut glass. "If you're a bellhop, where's your uniform?" she snapped.

"I'm not a bellhop, miss. I'm…"

"You are the hotel manager, then?" she interrupted.

"No, miss."

"Or the owner of this establishment, perhaps?"

"Not that either."

"Then I fail to see how you could possibly be of any help!"

"Nevertheless," he persisted, "I am at your service." Giving a slight bow, he introduced himself. "Artemus Gordon, of the Sec…"

"Oh, it's _you!_ " she exclaimed, cutting him off once more. "Mr West said you'd be joining us here once we arrived. Father is very eager to meet you, you know, though I'm certain his interest in making your acquaintance lies chiefly in the fact that you have a Greek name, albeit in a Roman spelling. In fact, I predict that his very first conversation with you — or perhaps I should say, _at_ you — will consist of five to ten minutes regarding the Greek goddess Artemis with detailed enumeration of her aspects and attributes. This will be followed by three minutes on how the name Artemidorus, meaning _Gift of Artemis_ , was derived from her name, being eventually shortened to the masculine form Artemas, ending in m-a-s, which is found in the Book of Titus in the Bible as one of the colleagues of the Apostle Paul.

"He will then," she continued as she produced a hankie from the cuff of one sleeve, unfurled the pastel blue cloth with a snap, and set about using it to polish her glasses, "most likely skip to the penname Artemus Ward as the earliest, most famous consistent use of the m-u-s spelling. But as Charles Farrar Browne, whose penname that was, was himself born in 1834, your name obviously cannot derive from his. That will take Father an additional, oh, ten minutes. He will finish with yet another ten minutes on the original Artemas Ward, the Revolutionary War general, who favored the m-a-s spelling, with inconsistent occasional specimens of m-u-s instead. In fact, Artemus in both spellings for a single individual seems to have been the norm in late Colonial times."

Perching the glasses back upon her nose, she refolded the hankie into a small fat triangle and tucked it back up her sleeve. "There! And after all that, in all no less than half an hour's worth of talk, Father will finally think to ask you how you came by the name yourself. To which you will reply?"

"Ah," said Artie, surprised to find himself with a turn in this conversation. "My mother took a fancy to it."

Her eyes rolled at such a prosaic answer. "I see," she said shortly. "Well. That being the case, Father will then lose all interest in you."

"He will."

"Oh yes. Father is highly predictable."

A handful of bellhops finally arrived under the supervision of James West. Giving the bellhops the number of the suite to which to deliver the baggage, Jim then turned to the woman sitting on the sofa and said, "Miss Bracewell, I believe I asked you to wait outside with the remainder of the luggage until I could send the bellhops out to take care of it all."

"And _I_ believe, Mr West, that you did not _ask_ me to do anything, but rather _ordered_ me to stay out there with the luggage. Do I so offend your aesthetic sensibilities that you prefer I not be seen in your presence in public?"

"Someone needed to guard the luggage. Someone who could be trusted with it."

"And again, that is not so! There were eleven items of luggage, and four of us. If each had taken an average of three bags apiece, we would have easily gotten all of the luggage _and_ us into the hotel all at the same time!"

Jim closed his eyes briefly, then turned to Artie and made sure his partner knew which suite the Bracewells were assigned to before heading off to follow the bellhops to the foot of the stairs where the professor and his lovely daughter awaited him. Slipping her hand from her father's arm, the darling girl smiled at Jim West and accepted his arm instead as they began to mount the stairs.

Sotto voce, Artie remarked to himself, "Must have been a very pleasant trip here on the train!"

Not quite sotto voce enough, he found, for the scholarly young woman responded instantly with, "That depends, of course, on one's definition of the word _pleasant_." Adjusting her spectacles with a quick poke at the bridge of them using her middle finger, she regarded Mr Gordon for a moment, then said, "Curious…"

"What is, Miss Bracewell?"

"The fact that you are obviously Mr West's senior in age, but obviously his junior in this work partnership."

Putting on a geriatric accent, he replied, "How very kind of you to notice what an old geezer I am, Missie."

She frowned mightily and exclaimed, "What was that about?"

Returning to normal, Artie said, "Well, you did bring up how much more elderly I am compared with my partner."

"My _point_ ," she said coldly, "was that while you are older than he, your role is of the junior partner."

He smiled genially. "So?"

" _So_ ," she responded, "he has exercised his positional seniority over you by going on to snap up the prize of escorting my beautiful elder sister Atalanta, leaving you here stuck with the homely younger sister, me." That sentence ended with a smile on her lips. Yes, the sort of smile that would make a man wary of a knife in his back or poison in his drink.

Oh, very pleasant journey indeed, thought Artie, but kept that thought to himself this time. Instead he remarked, "Ah. I hadn't been told either of your given names, Miss Bracewell. Your sister is Atalanta then. And you are…?"

Not answering immediately, she turned in her seat to watch the group on the stairs. "It's a very simple mnemonic, Mr Gordon, if you know your Greek mythology. My sister is Atalanta the fair. She of a thousand suitors, but swift of foot to run from them all. She at whose feet men cast their treasures of gold. Whereas I…" And here she sprang suddenly to her feet, drawing herself up to her full height, startling Mr Gordon not only with the abruptness of her action but with the fact that, standing tall, she towered over Artie's head by a good half-foot. "I am Hippolyta," she declared. "The Amazon."

And the only thing that popped into Artie's head for a reply was, "You certainly are."


	2. Act One, Part One

**Act One, Part One**

Artie glanced at his watch, then looked up to see Miss Hippolyta's eyes upon him from across the front room of the Bracewell family's hotel suite. Half an hour. Her father had in fact droned on for half an hour regarding the origin and development of the name Artemus. And now Prof Bracewell suddenly asked, "But tell me, Mr Gordon, how did you come to bear such an ancient and fascinating name, hmm?"

And, as he had when the professor's daughter had asked him the very same question well over thirty minutes earlier, Artie shrugged and replied, "My mother took a fancy to it."

"Oh?" said the professor. He frowned, paused, started to say something further, changed his mind, then gave a brief _harrumph_ and turned to the other Secret Service agent. "Well, Mr West, I suppose we should take these," and he patted the case he'd been clutching ever since they left the train, "and put them in the safe place you assured me would be waiting."

"Certainly, professor," said Jim. "Mr Gordon will lead the way."

"Mm? Oh?" The professor peered over his glasses at Artie as if he'd already forgotten the man's existence.

"Yes, Professor. This way." Artie gestured toward the door. "The security arrangements for the display of your archaeological treasures are all in place, just waiting for you, sir. You, ah, have the treasures there in your valise, I take it?"

With a merry laugh like aural sunshine, Miss Atalanta said, "Oh my, yes! Or the most important one, at least. Father hasn't let that case out of his sight or possession for days and days!"

"Nor should he!" Miss Hippolyta responded crossly. "Have you forgotten already what happened to the other two?"

Atalanta's eyes filled. "No, of course not, Polly!" Her pretty bow-shaped lips wobbled a bit. "Really, can't I ever say a thing without you taking exception?"

"Perhaps if you could manage to open your mouth without disclosing to the world at large your complete lack of brains, Lana. And you know I hate to be called Polly!"

Her sister's lips wobbled even more, accompanied by a single tear sliding down her alabaster cheek. "M-m-mother called you Polly," she ventured.

"Mother was Mother! Mother was perfect! Mother _loved_ me! But she's gone, and I don't want anyone else, least of all _you_ , calling me by her special nickname for me!" Hippolyta growled. She whirled on the two federal agents. "You said it was time to take the treasures down to the display room. May we please do so?" And as her father protested with a mild, "Now, now, girls, please. Please don't," his younger daughter drowned out his voice with, _"_ _Now?"_

Jim gave a loud sigh. "Yes. Right now would be best." He offered his arm to Atalanta, leaving Artie to escort Hippolyta once more. But even as he was crooking his arm to her, the young Amazon only rolled her eyes and strode out past him, past Jim and Atalanta, past her father as well, and clumped off down the hallway, then on down the stairs.

" _Coming?"_ Her less-than-dulcet tones floated up to them all.

Jim's lips set into an angry line. "Professor?" he said, managing, but only barely, to keep his temper in check.

"Oh. Oh, yes. If you gentlemen will bring those three cases as well?" And as Jim took one, leaving the other two for Artie, the old man bumbled off out the door.

"Ok, Artie," Jim added, "will you please go on down and head off that…" He paused, apparently editing himself. "…that female version of a bull in the china shop?"

"Sure, Jim, sure." As he hurried off down the stairs ahead of the rest in an attempt to catch up with Miss Hippolyta, Artie muttered, "What have we gotten ourselves into this time?"

…

Loud voices echoed from the display room, one strident and feminine, the other exasperated and masculine. "I have a perfect right to be here!" the woman's voice insisted.

"No one comes in here, lady! Not without Mr Gordon's say-so. Now you just wait out there in the hall…"

That was Dermot Parrish's voice, and Artie noted without the least trace of amusement whatsoever that Miss Hippolyta plainly never took _No_ for an answer.

"My father will be along in just moments, Mr Whoever-You-Are, bringing with him the very items for this as-yet empty display room to which you seem determined to deny me access! But if you would take even half a second to put to the task whatever it is you have inside your head which you no doubt consider to be a brain, you would realize that if I wished to steal anything of the Lydian treasures, I would surely _not_ bother with ransacking _this_ room, as they are manifestly not yet here! Now do step aside and let me in!"

"Lady…!" Parrish began, his tone of voice showing that his reserve of patience was about to run dry.

But now Artie strode briskly around the corner and caught up with the younger Bracewell sister. "Miss Hippolyta," he said cordially, somehow managing to catch her hand and tuck it through the crook of his arm, all the while juggling the two cases he'd brought down with him.

She glared down at him, then back toward the corner as the rest of their party came into view. "It's about time," she grumbled. "I suppose Atalanta asked you all to take her sightseeing."

Artie only smiled, then turned to Parrish and made introductions.

"Oh, _well!"_ said the security man. "Pleasure to meet you, Professor, ladies." He nodded toward Miss Atalanta with a big grin on his face — a grin that melted like snow on a griddle as soon as he glanced toward the other sister. Resolutely ignoring her, Parrish turned to her father and said, "Right this way, Professor." He led the way into the display room.

As soon as they were through the door, Miss Hippolyta dropped Artie's arm, gave him a pointed glare, and set off briskly to inspect the display cases.

"Mr Gordon here designed the theft-proofing," Parrish said. And then, pleased for the opportunity to show off all the devises he'd made, Artie went about the room arming and tripping each trap.

"Wonderful! Simply marvelous!" exclaimed Prof Bracewell. "And into which case shall we entrust the Apple?" He set down his valise and began fumbling with the latch.

"Oh, here, Father, allow me," said Miss Atalanta. She drew off her dainty lace gloves and helped him with the lock, even as Artie cast a glance Jim's way and asked, "Ah… Apple?"

"Oh yes!" Atalanta beamed as she succeeded in opening the valise. "The most amazing of the discoveries Father and Mother made this season: nothing less than the Golden Apples of the Sun!"

Across the room, Hippolyta gave a sniff and continued scrutinizing the cases.

"Golden Apples of the Sun? Really?" Artie repeated in astonishment as Atalanta carefully lifted out something about the size of — what else? — an apple, which was wrapped in a linen cloth. Slowly, for the item seemed rather weighty, she cradled it in her hands and set it down atop the nearest display case.

"There!" she said, and smiled at them all. "Would you care to have a look?" Gently she folded back the cloth and exposed the treasure within.

It certainly looked like an apple, and it also gleamed like gold. Artie stepped closer and bent to examine it. "This is what you found on your archaeological dig, Professor?" he asked.

"Well, that among many other precious things, yes. And originally there were not one Apple but three. Only…" Bracewell sighed mightily.

"The other two were stolen," said Jim. "One of them while the Bracewells were still in the field, the other apparently during their voyage across the Atlantic on their way to this conference."

Artie nodded. "Yes, I had heard two items were stolen from you. Ah… may I?" He gestured toward the Apple, clearly asking permission to pick it up.

Prof Bracewell shot an alarmed glance at James West, but Jim smiled in reassurance. "My partner is an expert on all things metallurgic, Professor. He can be trusted to handle the Apple without injuring it in any way."

"Ah. Well. Very, er, very well then." From the depths of his valise Bracewell produced a pair of linen gloves. "He must wear these, of course."

"Of course, Professor," Artie concurred. While Prof Bracewell and Atalanta took a few more of the Lydian treasures out of the valise, Artie brought the Apple up to his face and inspected it minutely. From his pocket he fetched forth a jeweler's loupe and screwed it into his eye. He ran his gloved fingers lightly over the gleaming surface of the precious item, clicked his tongue, then set the treasure back down atop its carrying cloth and drew off the gloves. With a shake of his head, Artie tossed the gloves down aside the Apple and glanced at Jim. "I… don't exactly know how to tell you this, Professor Bracewell, ladies, but — well…" Again he glanced at Jim.

His partner read his mind and spoke for him. "The Apple is fake." And as Artie gave a glum nod of his head, the professor and Miss Atalanta broke out into loud vociferations of denial.

While across the room, Miss Hippolyta sighed and gave a small shrug of her shoulders.


	3. Act One, Part Two

**Act One, Part Two**

"Fake! But, but it _can't_ be! It just _can't!"_

"Now, now, Lana my dear, don't take on so," said her father, patting her hand. "I'm sure there's some, well, some mistake."

"No mistake, Professor. I'm sorry. It's a very clever fake, but a fake nonetheless. If you would look here…" Artie started to delineate the problems with the Apple, but a heavy sigh at his shoulder cut him off.

"Oh, let me look!" said Hippolyta. She was already wearing a pair of her own gloves, larger even than the gloves Artie had just tossed down, for her hands were exceedingly broad. She took up the Apple and peered closely at it through the thick lenses of her spectacles. "Hmph!" she said at last. "Well, I can't say I'm a bit surprised that the third has gone the way of the other two." She glanced at her father. "Only those of us in this room know that this Apple is not the real one…" she began.

"Those of us in this room," put in Atalanta, "as well as whoever stole it!"

Hippolyta shot her an irritated glance. " _As I was saying_ before I was so rudely interrupted," she continued, "since none but we six know this Apple is fake, my counsel is to go ahead and lock this in the display case as if it were the genuine item. It's embarrassing enough that the other two were stolen; it might do irreparable harm to Father's reputation if word should get out that this one too is… not what it seems." She looked around at them all, then ordered, "Open the case for me, whichever case the real one was to be displayed in."

Artie glanced at Jim, then did as Hippolyta desired. She settled the golden orb onto the little stand within the case, then closed the door and watched as Artie locked it.

"There. And I certainly hope your security measures here in Denver are superior to those which were in effect at the time the final Apple was taken!" With that parting shot, Hippolyta swept from the room and left her father and sister to see to the unpacking of the remainder of the treasures.

…

It was a long day. In the evening came the banquet that officially kicked off the scientific conference. James West assigned Artemus to guard duty over the three Bracewells who would all be in attendance at the sumptuous dinner — for the professor was to give the keynote address at the end of the meal — while Jim set about investigating what could possibly have happened to the Apple.

It made no sense. Jim had met the Bracewells at the pier when they arrived from their transatlantic journey. He had personally supervised the transfer of their luggage from the ocean liner to the Wanderer; he had also brought in an expert jeweler who had authenticated every item of the Lydian treasure, particularly the sole remaining Apple. If it had been stolen, plainly that had happened on his watch, and Jim was not happy about this.

 _If_ it had been stolen! But clearly it had been stolen. Artie had looked it over and declared the Apple from the professor's valise to be a fake. So at some point between the time the jeweler had checked it in New York and the time Artie had checked it here in Denver, someone had opened the valise and made a substitution. But how?

And who?

Jim went through the professor's suite room by room, inch by inch, searching for anything that might shed light on this unhappy turn of events. Then, after making sure that Dermot Parrish had several men guarding the treasure room, Jim put on his hat and gun belt and left the hotel, hailing a cab for the railroad yards. Once there he made another search even more careful than the first, examining every inch of the Wanderer: varnish car and baggage car, even the engine and its tender full of fuel.

He found nothing, nothing that could explain how the Apple could have vanished and the fake been substituted.

At length he returned to the hotel, arriving just in time to see the attendees of the conference exiting the banqueting hall in high spirits. And in the case of Prof Bracewell, as it turned out, _exceedingly_ high spirits, for here came Artie, supporting the little professor who was regaling all within earshot with a song that was somewhat less than appropriate for mixed company.

Jim looked around, saw the man's daughters following him, and slapped a hand over Achilles Bracewell's mouth. "What happened to him?" he hissed to Artie as he tossed one of the professor's arms over his shoulders to aid his partner with this burden.

Artie shook his head. "You tell me. Everything was going along just fine until time came for the keynote address. Suddenly the professor turned green around the gills and stumbled from the head table. I hurried after him and found him in the men's room, shall we say, divesting himself of the banquet."

"Drunk?"

"As a lord, yes. There was no way he could give the speech in that condition. Shortly Miss Hippolyta appeared and… well, I've never known a woman to be so determined to shove her way into _that_ room! I explained the problem to her, and from what I understand, she then went back into the banquet hall, announced that her father was under the weather, and proceeded to give the speech herself."

"I wonder how well that went over," said Jim.

"Yeah, well, _I_ wonder how he's still feeling no pain after all the black coffee I've been pumping into him ever since he lost his dinner!" The little entourage arrived at the Bracewells' suite and Jim used the special key to let them all in. Then he and Artie hauled the sot inside and dropped him off on the nearest sofa.

Instantly Atalanta flung herself down on her knees on the throw rug before the sofa. "Oh, Father, Father! What's wrong?" she cried, wringing her lovely hands.

"What's wrong? Don't be an idiot, Lana!" Hippolyta growled at her sister. "Obviously Father imbibed much too freely of the wine at dinner and managed to pickle himself. But then you know how nervous he gets before he has to make a speech!" She swept past them all and on into her own bedroom, where she emphatically slammed the door.

"I…" Atalanta looked up helplessly at the two government agents, then back at her Father, who was now snoring peacefully on the couch. "Oh, wh-why must she always a-a-act like that? And e-especially now, with p-p-poor Father… Oh!" The pretty sister fumbled a lacy pink handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve, then dropped her face into the cloth and began to weep.

Jim and Artie exchanged glances, and Artie rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine! I'll see to Papa then. I've been doing it all evening." He went in search of a basin of water and some towels.

Jim lifted Atalanta to her feet, took hold of her upper arm, and steered her across the room to her own bedroom, which was separate from her sister's. Back at their journey's beginning when the reservations at the hotel were being made, Miss Hippolyta had insisted on a three-bedroom suite, and Jim now saw why.

Poor Atalanta though. Jim wouldn't want to have to share a room with Hippolyta either. He eased Atalanta into her room and with the advice of, "Just try to get some rest," he started to close the door and leave her to her own devices. Before he could exit, however, the lovely lass suddenly fell into his arms and began to sob.

"Oh, Mr West! Whatever am I to do? Why must she tr-treat me so shabbily? Why must she be so m-m-mean?"

Amazing — even dissolved in tears and stuttering badly, she managed to look utterly captivating. Jim cradled her in his arms and waited for her to cry herself out.

"If only…" Atalanta lamented brokenly. "Oh, if only M-mother were here! She… _she_ could handle Polly, even when none of the rest of us could. But, but Mother is… is _go-o-one!"_ The last word came out in a three-note wail.

"How did your mother handle Hippolyta?" Jim asked practically. "Perhaps you could do something similar."

"Oh d-dear, no, _that_ would never work!" Atalanta shook her head firmly. "You see, to Polly, Mother was her greatest ally, always c-completely on her side, just the two of them against all the rest of the world. Polly could never see _m-me_ that way, not when she apparently counts me as one of her ch-chiefest enemies. At least," she added, pain shining from her fathomless blue eyes, "Polly's never mistreated Father the way she does me. That's part of the reason I st-stay, you see, so that she has me upon whom to vent her annoyance. I could never b-bear it if she were to turn against Father! She has such a… such a _vicious_ temper, you know!"

She slipped from his arms, dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, then gave him a watery smile. "I… I believe I'll be all right, now, thank you, Jim." She dimpled prettily at him.

"It was my pleasure," Jim assured her.

She blushed. "That's so sweet of you! But really, I'll be fine now. You, ah… Perhaps you should go help Mr Gordon with Father." Again her dimples flashed at him.

Jim stepped from her room and closed the door softly behind him, then crossed back to the sofa. "How's Prof Bracewell?" he asked.

"Dead to the world," Artie replied. "And the lovely Atalanta?"

"Better, I think. She had a good cry at least."

"Mm. No love lost between those two sisters, is there?" Artie remarked. He finished checking over the professor, then ducked into the man's bedroom and brought out a pillow and blanket. "He might as well just sleep here, don't you think, Jim?"

"Yeah, he should be all right." The two got the pillow under the schnockered man's head, then spread the blanket over him.

"There!" said Artie. "And so to bed, hmm?"

"I still have the professor's key," said Jim. He pulled it from his vest pocket, then lifted his voice and called out, "Good night, ladies! Will one of you lock up?"

A moment later both bedroom doors opened and the Bracewell girls looked out. "I can do it," Atalanta offered.

"No, I've got it," countered Hippolyta, adding with a snarl, "You just go on and get your beauty sleep, pretty princess."

Atalanta's mouth dropped open. "I… Wh-what have I done _now?"_ she moaned.

"You're _existing!"_ Hippolyta barked back. With a wail Atalanta knocked her door shut even as her younger sister stalked over to the agents and snatched the key from Mr West's hand. Scowling, she eyed the two men and grumbled, "I suppose little Miss Snivels there has been whining to you about what an absolute harpy I am! Oh, but I wish she'd just go away! Father and I would be perfectly happy out in the field working on digs together just as he and Mother did. If only _she_ would, oh, go find herself some silly boy to run off and marry, and leave _us_ alone!" She shooed the two men out the door and a moment later they heard the sound of the key turning over in the lock.

"Well… Pleasant dreams," Artie called to her through the door.

"Ha!" she rejoined.

Silently Artie turned to Jim and lifted an eyebrow. "Nice!" Jim responded, and the two moved off down the hall to their own smaller suite.


	4. Act One, Part Three

**Act One, Part Three**

"Well, James my boy," said Artie as the pair entered their own rooms, "I can just imagine how delightful your trip across the country must have been!"

Jim sighed and dropped into a chair. " _Delightful_ doesn't even begin to describe it, believe me. A much better word — much, much better! — would be _long_."

Artie chuckled and crossed to the liquor cabinet. "I hear that!" He poured two glasses, then came back and passed one to Jim. "You know that old saying about how there can only be one queen bee in a hive?" Artie added as he settled into a chair.

Jim took a sip and rolled his eyes. "Oh, you've put your finger right on it, Artie! The Bracewell sisters certainly prove that one. You know, those two girls couldn't get along together for three minutes at a stretch the entire trip. I don't think this whole continent is big enough for the pair of them, much less the confines of two train cars."

"That bad, huh?" Artie sipped at his drink, then observed, "Still… Miss Atalanta seems charming enough. Very gracious."

"That she is," Jim agreed. "But then, she has to be; she'd never be able to…" He paused, selecting an appropriate word. "…to coexist with her sister otherwise." Setting his drink aside on the table beside his chair, Jim leaned forward and said, "What you've seen of that pair is how it went practically every hour on the hour: Atalanta would make some little remark, something completely innocuous, and Hippolyta would diligently find some reason to take offense at it anyway. She would counter with a sharp remark, then Atalanta would pout and ask what she'd done, which would only send Hippolyta off into a blind rage. In the blink of an eye she would be furiously demanding of Lana to stop it, declaring that it wasn't going to work this time. Meanwhile Atalanta would dissolve into tears, stuttering out that she didn't know what Polly meant."

"My, my! Such a pity that I missed out on all that!"

"Oh, don't worry; you've already started to get your fair share of it, and no doubt there'll be plenty more of it where that came from before this weekend is out."

Artie snickered. "And it's only Friday night! But what about their father?" he added. "Didn't he try to put a stop to all the quarreling?"

Jim shook his head. "Their father is worse than useless. I suspect he's heard them going round and round like that so many times that he doesn't even notice anymore until the argument reaches the shrieking point. He would just sit there for the longest time, perusing his scientific journals, lost in a world all his own while the bickering escalated into all-out war. And you know, even when he did intervene, it would be in the form of something utterly ineffective, generally along the lines of wringing his hands while crying out, 'Girls, girls!' " Jim shook his head. "We'd only have peace again once Hippolyta had stormed from the parlor — at which point Prof Bracewell would apologize, saying that only his dear sainted wife, God rest her soul, could ever deal with their younger daughter."

"Oof. So at the risk of making a bit of an understatement, the dear ladies don't get along with each other."

"Not in the least. But bear in mind that Hippolyta doesn't limit it to her sister; she doesn't get along with anyone."

"Ah, yes. We, ah, had a little taste of that in the lobby earlier, didn't we?"

"Right. No one in her immediate vicinity can possibly do anything right in her estimation, not even her father and certainly not her sister."

"Looks like Miss Hippolyta takes the saying of 'Nobody's perfect' to its logical extreme," Artie mused. "Well, except for her mother. Remember? 'Mother was perfect.' " His mimicry of the uncongenial Amazon was impeccable.

"Oh yes: her perfect, saintly, loving, _late_ mother Helena Bracewell," Jim concurred. "Or at least, it would take the perfection of a saint to put up with Hippolyta, much less love her."

"Kinda wish Mama Bracewell was here to rein in her beloved daughter," Artie murmured. "At any rate, James my boy, you may expect my effusive, undying gratitude forevermore for seeing to it that I keep getting paired off with the more _winsome_ of the sisters to escort about this conference."

"Sorry, buddy, but I already had my fill of Miss Hippolyta on the train."

"Oh, I understand. I understand completely. But the question is: what shall I do with her tomorrow? Should I provide her with a pretty, lace-bedecked gag to spare my ears, or should I just spike her drink with knock-out drops and do us all a favor?"

"That is completely up to you," Jim said as he rose from his chair to head off to bed. "But as far as I'm concerned, either one of those solutions sounds just about right."

"I bet they do," Artie grinned. He too arose, and after dropping off their used glasses at the liquor cabinet and turning out all the lights, he gave a massive yawn and wandered off to bed as well.

…

Three hours later there came a knock at the agents' door. No, make that a frantic pounding on their door, nearly an extended drum solo. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming!" Artie growled, throwing back his covers and hastily donning his dressing gown. He stumbled from his bedroom and headed across the main room, peripherally spotting Jim as he emerged from his own bedroom, bare-chested above his pajama bottoms. "I got it, I got it," Artie muttered, adding with sleepy grumpiness, "You're slipping, you know."

"Slipping?" asked Jim.

"Well, yeah! You showed up too soon. You should have timed your entrance for just as I laid a hand on the door knob!"

Jim chuckled as he grabbed his own dressing gown and shrugged it on. "Oh, get back to bed, Artie. I'll see who's at the door."

"Naw, naw. I'm already here." Artie finished tying the sash of his robe and opened the door — and immediately had to make a quick catch as the disturber of their rest fell right into his arms. "Miss Atalanta!" he blurted.

A second later Jim was at his side, and both men supported the girl, clad for bed in a silk peignoir richly bedecked with ribbons and laces, across the room and to the sofa. "Miss Atalanta, what's wrong?" Jim asked, seating himself at her side and taking her hand as Artie hurried to get their unexpected guest a glass of water.

"Oh, M-mr West, Mr Gordon, I don't know what's happened!" She accepted the glass that Artie pressed into her hand, took a hasty sip, then passed it back with a dimpled glance of gratitude. Lifting her large and troubled eyes toward Jim again, she exclaimed, "I awakened a few minutes ago and went to get a dr-drink of water, only to find that Father was no longer sleeping on the sofa. I checked his bedroom to make sure he was all right, but he w-wasn't there either!"

"Wasn't there?" The agents exchanged a glance, and Artie, being already on his feet, started for the door.

"N-no, he wasn't in the suite at all," said Atalanta. "And not only that, I went into P-polly's room to see if she knew where Father went, and she's missing as well!"

"What?" Artie paused in the doorway and looked back at Jim. "They're both gone?"

Jim came to his feet and strode for his bedroom. "Artie, you go on and check the suite while I get dressed."

"Right, Jim." Artie hurried away.

Just minutes later Jim, fully dressed and with his gun belt strapped around his waist, appeared again and headed for the door. "Atalanta," he said to the young woman still seated on the sofa, "you stay here and wait for us to come back. Keep that door locked and don't let anyone in who isn't me, Mr Gordon, or a member of your family."

"Y-yes, Mr West," she said submissively. "Oh, I do hope you find them quickly!" She rose to her feet and followed him to the door, taking his hand and squeezing it anxiously. "P-please, find my father and my sister!"

"We'll do our best," Jim assured her. He left, waited to hear her turn his key in the lock, then set off down the hall to join Artie.

…

It didn't take long to check the suite. In fact, Artie had already finished by the time Jim arrived, but once he was there, both men made a thorough search all over again. Sure enough, the professor and his younger daughter were gone without a trace.

Or nearly without a trace. After he finished checking the main room once again, Artie picked up the professor's blanket and draped it over his arm to take it back to the man's bedroom. And as he did...

"Hey, Artie!"

"Hmm?"

"Look at this; it fell out of the blanket."

From the floor Jim scooped up a curious object. It was a long strip of paper no more than a quarter-inch wide, and all down one side of the paper were letters, individual block capital letters written one to a line, and forming no comprehensible words whatsoever.

Artie gaped at the long curl of paper. "A scytale?"

"Maybe. Got a pencil?"

Artie patted at the pockets of his dressing gown and shook his head. "Not on me, no, but maybe... Yeah, here we go." He found a pencil lying by the base of the lamp on the side table beside the sofa, and passed the slender writing instrument over to his partner. "If it's the wrong diameter though," he commented as Jim began winding the paper around the pencil, "all you'll get is gobbledygook. That's the beauty of the scytale: it's been scrambling covert communications ever since the days of the ancient Greeks! In fact," he added, a twinkle in his eye, "you realize that whenever Julius Caesar used one, it was _scytale_ made in _Italy_." Artie grinned proudly.

Jim closed his eyes as if in pain, then shot his partner a look. "You just couldn't resist that, could you?"

"What, making that delightful little rhyme? Of course not!" He leaned closer. "But I wonder who constructed this one though? And why?"

"Have a look then," said Jim. "The diameter wasn't wrong." He held out the fully wrapped pencil, and Artie read from it the message of:

 _IF YOU WISH TO KNOW WHAT BECAME OF THE FINAL APPLE, COME TO THE GARDENER'S SHED BEHIND THE HOTEL AT TWO AM. COME ALONE._

"And it's signed with... What is that, an H or an A?"

"Not sure. It could be either."

"Two AM. And it's…" Both men glanced at the clock.

"Nearly a quarter past. C'mon, Artie. We'd better get down to the gardener's shed."

"Yeah, I hear you! I just need to go back and get my gun and…" He waved a hand at his dressing gown over his pajamas.

Jim shot him a look. "Gun, yes; change of clothing, no. There's no telling what's going on down there, so just get the gun and meet me downstairs right away!"

"Well, sure, Jim, sure," said Artie as his partner bolted from the room and pelted off for the stairs. Artie then turned and hurried back to their room where he collected his revolver as well as a few other potentially helpful items before rushing for the stairs himself, tucking things into his pockets as he went.


	5. Act One, Part Four

**Act One, Part Four**

Less than half an hour earlier another figure had passed this way: Prof Achilles Bracewell, intensely curious and still a touch tipsy. In his rush to answer the siren's call of the mysterious scytale, the professor had noticed nothing of his environs, neither on the stairs nor in the lobby. An entire marching band blasting out "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean" could have been dogging his heels and he would never have spotted them. No, his mind — the portion that wasn't still partly pickled, that is — was reeling with questions such as: Who could have sent him such a note, and indeed, how had it come into his possession? He had awakened only minutes earlier to find himself, disorientingly enough, sleeping upon the sofa instead of in his bed, and when he had lighted the lamp on the side table, there to his amazement had lain a long curl of paper along with a conveniently provided pencil around which to wrap it.

But indeed, from whom had the message originated? Who was his informant, this pseudonymous A — unless it was H? And the Apple! Was he truly to learn what had become of it? Or even — dare he hope — to regain it?

Onward scurried the professor, on through the lobby and down a succession of wrong hallways before he at last found his way to a set of French doors through which he passed into the pleasant moonlit garden behind the hotel, enclosed all about by a high brick wall. Even here he stumbled about for a bit before quite literally bumping into the modest gardener's shed. Ah, but here it was at last! And the time? He pulled out his pocket watch and read it with some difficulty by the light of the moon to find that he had arrived with only a minute or two to spare.

A slight sound behind him informed him that he was no longer alone. He spun, all but losing his balance, to see that in the deep shadows beneath a weeping willow tree stood a still more shadowy cloaked figure. "Ah, there you are. Good," came the figure's voice.

The professor frowned. The voice was husky, artificially so. Not a voice he recognized, and yet — yes, he was sure it was familiar! "Who are you?" he asked bluntly.

A chuckle answered him. "Why, who else would I be but the one who sent you the scytale?"

He gasped with glee. "Then the Apple! You know where it is? You can lead me to it?"

There was a sigh. "Oh, dear. I was afraid you might say that."

"What? I... I don't understand. What do you mean? Your note said…"

"I know what my note said!" the other interrupted. "Old fool, it was a ruse, a trick to lure you here! I had hoped that you would immediately demand of me to know how I could possibly have information on the whereabouts of the Apple when you yourself had taken it and hidden it away!"

"I? _I!_ But... I don't know where the Apple is! How could I know?"

There came yet another sigh, louder than the first. "You had charge of it the entire trip! If _you_ didn't take it, then who else…? Hmm. Yes, who else indeed! Very well then. I see I must look elsewhere. Good-bye."

"No, wait!" cried the professor as the cloaked figure turned away. He sprang after his mysterious visitor, catching at the cloak, yanking it away.

And found beneath was the dress of a woman. He gaped as she whirled to glare at him. "You?" he squeaked. "But... But... It can't be! I don't believe it!"

"Don't believe what? That I made off with the first two Apples but let the final one elude me?" Her eyes flicked to something behind his back. "Why did you have to tear away my cloak, you old fool? I can't allow you to tell anyone about me!" And she gave a nod.

Even in his stunned and less than sober state, Prof Bracewell recognized his imminent danger. He ducked and flung out the cloak he was still holding, managing fortuitously to slap the yardage of thick cloth into the face of the man who had been sneaking up behind him, ready to bash the professor's head in with a heavy black cosh.

The man bellowed as the cloak smacked into him. He flailed at it, trying to tear the cloth off his head.

"Hush!" hissed the woman urgently. "Do you want someone to hear us? Now hurry! He's getting away!"

Indeed, the professor was haring off for the hotel's back door. At last freeing himself from the cloak, the man with the cosh raced after his prey. Professor Bracewell glanced back and gave a shriek like a frightened rabbit.

And at that moment, just when he was paying insufficient attention to where he was going, the professor's foot hit something lying on the ground. He tripped and fell headlong, his cranium bouncing off the edge of a marble fountain. And where he landed, there he lay.

The man caught up with him; the woman, freshly cloaked again, was barely a step behind him. "Is he...?" she asked hopefully.

The man knelt and checked. "Knocked himself out cold," he reported.

"Hmph. Then we shall have the finish the job."

"Right." The man lifted his cosh.

"No, wait! I have a better idea. Something more... appropriate."

"Appropriate? What are you talking about?"

"You shall see. You have a knife?"

"Well, yeah. Why?"

"Take the knife then and cut him. There." She touched the spot she had in mind with the toe of her shoe.

"Ugh! Why there?"

"Never you mind why! Just do it. And hurry!"

Scowling, her minion obeyed.

…

Jim hit the lobby, gun in hand, and came to a halt, watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary. Slowly he worked his way forward, every nerve in his body on full alert. There was no one around that he could see.

He approached the front desk and looked behind it. Nobody here either. He moved on into the hallway beyond; to the right was the display hall in which lay the Lydian treasures, both real and fictitious, while in the opposite direction was the banquet hall with its associated kitchens. The gardens behind the hotel though: where were they?

"Jim!" Artie hurried up, his revolver in hand.

"How do we get to the garden, Artie?"

"This way." The two moved off, keeping watch in all directions, coming swiftly to a set of French doors that opened onto a moon-drenched expanse of lawn punctuated with bushes, fountains, and a weeping willow tree. At the far end stood a small, unobtrusive shed. "Must be the place," said Artie, nodding towards it.

"That may be the shed," Jim replied, "but it's not what we're looking for." He strode off across the garden, heading for a fountain, its waters splashing playfully in the moonlight. And by the foot of it…

"Professor!"

Both men dropped to their knees at either side of the prone figure and swiftly rolled him over onto his back. "Prof Bracewell!" Jim called as Artie checked the man's vitals. "Professor!" Jim slapped the man's glassy-eyed face.

Artie sighed heavily. "He's barely got any pulse at all, Jim. And look at this pool of blood!"

"I don't see a wound though. Where's he bleeding from?" He joined Artie in checking for the source of the blood.

"Here!" Artie yanked a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown and knotted it around the man's ankle, applying strong pressure in the hope, however slight, of staunching the bleeding. "Someone cut him badly, right here in the heel."

"The heel? That's a strange place to be attacked."

"One of the strangest I've ever heard of, yes! Problem is, I don't know if we've gotten to him in time. He's really lost a lot of…"

"The Apple!" To the amazement of both Secret Service agents, Prof Bracewell suddenly sat bolt upright and clutched at Jim's lapel. "She… she said that _I_ had stolen the final Apple! How could she believe that? Why would I steal… Oh, but it was _she_ who took the other two! She _told_ me! She…"

"Easy, Professor, don't tax yourself," said Artie, trying to get the injured man to lie back down, even as Jim was demanding sternly, "She? Professor, who is this _she_? Who did this to you and why?"

Achilles Bracewell's eyes snapped to look Mr West in the face. "Why? My word, man, I haven't the least clue as to why! I never could fathom the profundities of the feminine mind! As for who she was, she… she…"

His grip relaxed abruptly and Bracewell slumped over. "Professor!" Artie cried. He grabbed the man's wrist, then felt along his neck for the carotid artery.

Then, with a sigh, he shook his head, finding no pulse at either site. "We've lost him, Jim. He's gone."

From the French doors came a cry of "Gone! But, but, _Papa!_ _ **No!"**_ And a feminine figure sprang into the gardens to fling herself down inconsolably at the dead man's side.

 **End of Act One**


	6. Act Two, Part One

**Act Two, Part One**

"Now, now, Miss Hippolyta," Artie said instantly, attempting to draw her away. "This isn't the place for you. Come back into the lobby and we'll find you a seat where you can, ah…" His voice trailed off as he found that he might as well be trying to pick up and move the whole fountain beside them as to budge this young Amazon from her dead father's side.

She shot him a fiery glare. "And just where _is_ the place for me, Mr Gordon, but here with Pap… with Father, as chief of his mourners and soon to be as well the embodiment of the Furies of old, to avenge his foul murder!"

"No one said it was murder, Miss Hippolyta," Jim pointed out sternly.

"Oh, indeed? He hurried out for a clandestine tryst in the middle of the night, and just happened to fall down here in the garden and bleed to death? Of _course_ he was murdered, and by the hand of whomever lured him down here!"

The agents exchanged a glance. "Then you knew about his meeting."

"Yes, yes, Mr West," she replied in annoyance. "He was dithering about out in the front room of our suite, making so much noise that he awakened me, and when I came out to ask what he was doing, he complained that he couldn't find the key for the door."

"You were the last one who had it," said Artie.

"Precisely! I showed it to him, and he let himself out, telling me to lock up behind him."

"Which I'm sure you did," said Jim.

"Yeah, but only after letting yourself out as well!" Artie added.

Hippolyta's chin rose. "And what else should I have done? I couldn't have Father pottering about all over the place unsupervised, not after the disgraceful display he'd put on earlier! So I followed him — discreetly, of course. But then when we reached the lobby, I... well…"

"You lost him. Obviously."

Again she glared. "If you would kindly _not_ interrupt, Mr Gordon, I was _going_ to say that when I reached the lobby, I was attacked!"

"Attacked?" said Jim.

" _You?_ " added Artie. "Who would be cra... I, uh… I mean, why would anyone want to attack you? Oh, and, uh… you are all right, aren't you?"

Hippolyta glowered. "I am perfectly fine, as you can see. As for why anyone would be _crazy_ enough to attack me…" and here she shot Mr Gordon a look that was full of daggers, "I cannot tell you, for I have no idea. What I can tell you, however, is that the miscreant certainly paid the price for his insolence." She smiled smugly. "For I marked him, you see. The man is now sporting a fresh set of gashes across his cheek. He'll be easy to identify should he be fool enough to show his face around here." And she lifted a hand, her fingers flexing into claws — from which Artie found himself instinctively flinching away.

"Go back again," said Jim. "You followed your father downstairs, and someone attacked you in the lobby."

"Yes, as I said."

"You then fought off your attacker and… What happened next?"

She shrugged. "He ran away. I followed him, intent on giving him a hefty portion of my mind…"

"I'm sure you did," muttered Artie.

With another glare at Mr Gordon, Hippolyta continued with, "But he made good his escape, I'm afraid. Once I saw that I wouldn't be able find the attacker again, I retraced my steps to the lobby." At this point she sighed, her shoulders dropping. "Unfortunately, by that time I'd completely lost track of Father. I looked for him everywhere: lobby, banquet hall, display room — which I found locked and guarded, thank goodness — and even the, er…" A blush crept over her face as she admitted, "Well, I did check the men's room where Mr Gordon found Father earlier."

"Why didn't you just come here to the garden? This is where the note directed your father to meet with, well, with whomever he met."

"You saw the note?" she asked in surprise. "I never did. Oh, but if only I had! I might have arrived in time to protect poor Father! Which, I might add, is more than the pair of _you_ have managed to do! First the final Apple, and now this!" She waved a hand at the poor dead man, then took a closer look and drew back in horror. "Why… why is there a handkerchief tied about his ankle?"

"Because," said Artie with a bluntness born of both the lateness of the hour and the young woman's native abrasiveness, "that's where he took his fatal wound, Miss Hippolyta. In the…"

"The _heel?"_ she interrupted, her great unlovely face having gone absolutely white. "He was struck in the heel? With an arrow no doubt?"

"No, more likely with a knife," Artie replied. He shot Jim a puzzled look; this was the first time he'd ever seen the Amazon behave in anything close to the usual manner he would expect of a woman. "Now, see, Miss Hippolyta, you really shouldn't be here. Come along back to the lobby as I said before and…"

"No, surely it was an arrow! You must look for it at once! Or I shall!" She sprang up to her feet, swayed for a moment as if she might swoon, then lifted her chin once more. "Look for it. Look all around. The assailant would have… yes, of course! He would have been on the wall! That would be perfect. The closest equivalent we have here to the walls of Ilium. Standing on the wall to shoot down the celebrated hero of the Greeks…" She was waving her hands now, all but ranting.

Jim caught her arm and swung her to face him. "What on earth are you talking about?" he demanded.

For a moment she stared down at him as if she'd never seen him before. Then she gave a laugh. "Why, isn't it obvious? My father, Achilles Bracewell, murdered by unholy hands, struck down even as his ancient namesake was killed — by an arrow in his heel." She drew herself up tall, her eyes flashing. "And what's more, I can name for you the assassin who carried out the foul deed. Of course, I should have seen it at once and warned Father against the man!"

"What are you talking about?" Jim reiterated, even as Artie put in, "Actually, your father was saying there was a woman involved."

"Yes, yes, I've no doubt of _that_. Naturally there would be a woman behind the man, putting him up to it, egging him on until the last of the three golden Apples is firmly in her grasp. But don't you see? Our _names!_ Our names are our fates! Atalanta's is intrinsically tied up with the Apples. Mother's — Mother's name was Helena, and she died burning, burning up of a fever as hot as the flames that overthrew ancient Troy. My own fate is that of the Amazonian queen, betrayed by a man who ought to have trusted her, or else by her own sister, or perhaps by both. And Father…"

She glanced down at him, lying peacefully by the fountain, his eyes closed forevermore. "Father's fate has come upon him. He has died as that great hero of old died, struck down in his heel by the perfidious Paris."

"Ah…" said Jim, and glanced at Artie. "Paris?"

"Oh, come on!" Artie snapped. "You don't really believe _that_ , do you, Hippolyta?"

"You can't accuse a man simply because his name fits an ancient legend," Jim added.

"And doesn't even fit it perfectly!" Artie finished.

"Nevertheless," said the young woman, drawing herself up with queenly hauteur. "There is no doubt in my mind: my father was killed here in this garden by the hand of that ignominiously rude man we met earlier in the display room just minutes before the third Apple was found to be a forgery. The murderer is Mr Parrish!"

…

"But I don't want to go up to the suite and go to bed; we must keep searching!"

"Miss Hippolyta," said Artie through gritted teeth, "we have just spent the past hour scouring the entire gardens. If there were any arrows here, we would have found them!"

"And before the undertaker took your father's body away, he examined the wound, as did Mr Gordon and myself. There's no doubt of it: the ankle was cut with a knife, _not_ shot with an arrow," Jim added, his own patience rapidly approaching its last frazzled end as well.

"Then we must search again! I am absolutely certain that…"

"…that what?" Artie interrupted. "That the coincidence of someone here at the hotel having a name that _vaguely_ resembles the name Paris means that — of course, naturally! — he _must_ be the mastermind behind your father's death?"

She gave a sniff of derision. "No, of course not. Do you think I'm a fool?"

The agents exchanged a glance, and Artie seriously considered answering the woman's query with the truth.

"No, no," Hippolyta continued, "Mr Parrish is not the mastermind here. Why would you think such a thing? On the contrary, the mastermind behind all this, from the moment the first of the Apples was stolen right up to this last infamous act of murder against my father — the mastermind, I say, gentlemen, is none other than my own ravishingly beautiful but utterly heartless elder sister!"

Jim closed his eyes for a second. "Well, I knew _that_ was coming," he remarked.

"Ah, then you recognize her fair hand in all this? Excellent!"

"No, Miss Hippolyta, what I recognize is that you hate her with such a passion that you believe the worst of her at every turn. Do you happen to have any proof to back up your accusation?"

"Proof?"

"Yes, evidence," said Artie. "Hard and fast evidence."

"But of course! I've had to put up with her all my life. I know her character, the sort of wicked schemes she is capable of."

"No," said Jim firmly. "We mean the sort of evidence that will stand up in court."

"The fact that _you_ say she's the biggest Jezebel since… well, since the original Jezebel herself is not going to sway a judge at law," Artie pointed out.

She gaped at the men. "But… but she is evil! She is! I know her! I…" Abruptly she turned on her heel and stormed off, her voice floating back to them. "Fine! I see that she's worked her wiles on you the same as she does all men. Well, if no one else will hold her accountable for her crimes, you may rest assured that _I will!"_

"Uh-oh," muttered Artie as he and Jim rushed after the Amazon. They caught up with her halfway up the stairs; Jim outpaced her and whirled to confront her. "Miss Hippolyta…"

"Get out of my way!" she demanded.

"You are _not_ going to take the law into your own hands, Hippolyta. You are going to sit down and keep quiet and let us investigate this. If Atalanta is in fact behind this, we will discover the truth, I promise you."

"Ha! When you're already under her spell, the both of you?"

"And if she isn't behind this," Jim went on as if she had never spoken, "and your accusations are false, you yourself will be in big trouble with the law if you've carried out any of your threats of vengeance. And you know it."

"But she deserves… Oh, fine! Have it your way then! You have twenty-four hours to prove to me that my sister is innocent. But after that…"

"After that, what?" said Artie.

She spun to glare at Mr Gordon behind her. "After that, we shall see, shan't we?" She turned her glare towards Mr West again and snapped, "Now if you'll excuse me, I shall go up to my room and go back to bed. That _is_ what you were imploring me to do earlier, is it not?"

Jim stepped to one side and swept out an arm mockingly. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

"Hmph!" She elevated her chin once more and stomped off up the stairs.

"Whew!" murmured Artie. "We should probably warn Atalanta about her!"

"We also have to break the bad news to her," Jim added as the two continued up the stairs. "By the way, what was that thing I saw you slip into your pocket during our fruitless search for the non-existent arrow?"

Artie sighed and reached into his pocket. "Something I wanted to show to you first before Hippolyta could find out I'd spotted it. Here."

He handed over a folded piece of cloth, lavender, lace-edged, and finely embroidered in one corner with a spray of lilacs surrounding a large capital _H_.

Jim studied it minutely, unfolding it, then folding it back into a square again. "Nothing hidden inside it. A lady's handkerchief though, and with Hippolyta's own initial on it." He glanced at Artie. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Probably." Artie sighed. "It's a horrible thought, but… Great Scott though, Jim, that angry young giantess would never make it on the stage! That has to be about the clumsiest, heaviest-handed frame-up job I've ever seen! To insist like that that her sister is a thief and a murderer, and then drop her own lace hankie at the murder scene!"

They arrived at the third floor and went immediately to the Bracewell suite. The door, they found, was locked, and a knock upon the door only resulted in a cross Amazonian growl of "Do go away!"

With a shake of his head, Jim turned and started for their own suite. "Ah…" Artie hurried to catch up. "Aren't we going to warn Atalanta? She really shouldn't be stuck in that suite alone with Hippolyta, not with what Hippolyta believes about her."

"She isn't. Atalanta's in our suite, remember?"

"She… she is?"

"Yes. Ever since she came to wake us up. I told her to stay there and keep the door locked."

"You did?" Artie frowned. "But when I went back for my gun, I didn't see anyone in there."

"Didn't she let you in when you knocked?"

"Well, no — but then I didn't bother to knock. I just figured you'd locked up, so I picked the lock and let myself in." He shrugged as they reached their suite. "But I didn't see anyone in the…" He trailed off as Jim knocked.

No answer.

Jim shot Artie a frown. "Oh, surely we don't have yet _another_ Bracewell missing!" he growled. An instant later Jim snatched the lock pick from under his lapel and made short work of the lock. The next instant the two agents were flanking the door, revolvers in hand as Jim softly turned the knob, then threw the door open.

Silence met them. Jim glanced through the doorway, then sprang inside, Artie right behind him. They took in the room before them — completely empty — and the closed doors to their two bedrooms.

"Atalanta!" Jim called out, moving towards his room. Artie mirrored him, heading for his own bedroom as he too called the young woman's name. He found, as he expected, that there was no one in his room. He turned away, shaking his head, and followed Jim into the other bedroom. There he saw his partner standing over the bed and in the very act of holstering his gun. "Jim?"

Jim touched a finger to his lips and nodded at the bed. Under the covers, with the blanket pulled up to her pretty chin, her blonde hair flowing all over the pillow, and her breath coming in long slow sighs, there was the final member of the Bracewell family.

"Oh, good. You found Sleeping Beauty — or maybe Goldilocks."

"Yeah. She must have come in here to lay down and wait," said Jim.

"Well, as long as nothing's happened to her." Artie too holstered his weapon. "She should be fine here for the rest of the night, I suppose. You don't want to, uh…?"

"Wake her up and give her the news? No, it'll keep. Let her get her sleep now." Jim crossed to the closet and brought out an extra pillow and blanket.

"Right," said Artie as the two left the bedroom and Jim set about making up the sofa for his own use. "Morning is soon enough for her to find out… well, to find out what happened. _You_ get to tell her," he added, poking a finger at Jim.

"Thanks," said Jim, sounding not a bit grateful. "And while I'm attending to that unpleasant task, _you_ get to go baby-sit Miss Hippolyta."

"Wait, _what?"_ Artie complained. "Aw, James!"

"You're the one who saddled me with being the breaker of bad news."

"Yeah, and I should have thought that one through a little longer first!" Artie shot back. He turned and looked towards Jim's bedroom, thinking about the slumbering princess within that room. Then, with a shake of his head, Artie added, "Poor kid though. After everything else that's happened lately, now she has to go plan a funeral — and alongside Hippolyta to boot!" He rubbed a hand over his face, then yawned. "Well… g'night, Jim — or what's left of it." And Artie wandered off for his own room.

"G'night, Artie," Jim returned. Shedding his jacket, gun belt, and boots, Jim lay down to make himself comfortable on the sofa and was shortly sound asleep.

Within his bedroom, however, a pair of exquisite blue eyes popped open. Had… had someone mentioned the word _funeral_? Atalanta hesitated, bit at her lip, then snuggled down under the covers again and closed her eyes once more.


	7. Act Two, Part Two

**Act Two, Part Two**

Morning came all too soon. Artie dragged himself out of bed, got dressed, gave Jim a bleary "G'morning," then headed off down the hall for his rendezvous with the Amazon — which was exactly as agreeable as he had anticipated it would be. Miss Hippolyta was uncooperative in the extreme, barely acquiescing to be escorted down to the dining hall for breakfast.

"I'm hardly an invalid or an idiot, Mr Gordon. I can find my way around the hotel for myself, thank you very much!" she growled in a tone of voice that belied the polite phrase at the end of her statement.

Artie took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. "Nevertheless," he said, persistently offering his elbow, "as you pointed out last night, something happened to your father on our watch, and Mr West and I intend to do everything in our power to prevent anything else happening, particularly to you or your sister."

"Hmph! Is that so?"

Artie's brows knit slightly. "Excuse me?"

She smirked. "You're here to protect me. Of course you are! And meanwhile your partner is 'protecting' Lana, is that it? He sent you off to bear me company while he and my sister…" Another smirk. "…bear each other company, I presume?" She fixed Mr Gordon with a gimlet glare. "And just where _was_ my sister all night, anyway? She certainly wasn't here in our suite when I came back, nor has she put in an appearance in all the hours since I returned either!"

"Well, no. She's in our suite. She was sleeping there when we got back, so Mr West and I just let her continue to sleep. She wasn't awake yet when I came away just now, so that leaves Jim with the unhappy task of breaking the tragic news to her."

Hippolyta rolled her eyes expansively — a far from pleasant sight. "Oh, he gets to do that, does he? Poor little Atalanta! No doubt she'll cry her pretty eyes out, leading Mr West to wrap his manly arms around her, and… well, who knows what will happen after _that!_ No wonder Mr West sent you away so that he could have the suite all to himself, just him and my sister!"

Artie drew himself up and gave the hem of his vest an angry yank to straighten it. "Let me assure you, Miss Bracewell, that my partner is not the sort of man to take _that_ sort of advantage of a grieving woman, and I resent your insinuations against him!"

She all but crowed with laughter. "Oh dear me! Did I dare to touch the fragile male ego? Do you think I don't know what men talk about when they believe women aren't eavesdropping, Mr Gordon? Oh believe me, I have been on plenty enough archaeological digs where the male workers presumed falsely that I did not know their language! I know well enough that one of their favorite topics of conversation is women, and in particular how easy it is for a man to… persuade a woman right into his arms. And it matters little what sort of man your partner is, nor whether he may have designs on taking advantage of my sister or not, for let me assure _you_ that taking advantage of _him_ is precisely what sweet Atalanta has in mind! She will have him wrapped around her little finger, eager to jump as soon as she says 'Boo' before…" She glanced at the clock on the mantel. "…before the two of us can return from our breakfast. You just mark my words and see if it isn't so! In fact," she added, a grim smile upon her face, "I would give all my eyeteeth and half my molars to be a fly on the wall in your suite right now to see just how quickly your partner succumbs to Atalanta's plans for him. For that matter, I wish _you_ were there to see it as well!" And with that she swept from the suite and away down the stairs, leaving Mr Gordon behind her to play a scrambling game of catch-up once more.

…

Meanwhile, for any flies that might have been on the wall of the other suite in question, the following scene played out:

"Oh! Oh, no! _Father!"_ The ravishing blonde covered her face with both hands as she broke down sobbing. Beside her on the sofa, Jim West slipped an arm around her and wordlessly drew her close. After all, there was nothing he could say that would ease a daughter's grief over her slain father; only time would do that. He simply held her and let her cry, and offered her his handkerchief.

"No, thank you," she murmured softly. "I still have my own." From the pocket of her dressing gown she drew forth a lace-edged hankie a shade paler than her blushing cheeks. In the corner, Jim saw, was a large capital _A_ surrounded by delicately embroidered roses. "T-tell me everything," she choked out. "Wh-what happened? How did my father d-d-die!" The final word turned into a wail.

Succinctly Jim complied, giving her the briefest version of the night's events. "The undertaker has charge of the body now. Once you and your sister are ready, Mr Gordon will escort you to the funeral parlor to make all the arrangements."

"A-arrangements! You… you mean, to… to… to…"

"Bury him, yes," Jim finished for her. The more she dwelt on what had happened, the worse became her stutter.

"Th-th-thank you. But burial! A funeral! I-I can't even imagine… Oh, I have no idea what to do, not even the first thing!" She fell to crying once more.

"No offense, Miss Atalanta, but someone made the arrangements for your mother's funeral not so very long ago. Who did that?"

"Why, Father, of course! He was… Oh, he was my _rock!_ How shall I ever r-recover from this dreadful blow? How can I go on without _Father-er-er?_ " Her face disappeared behind the hankie as she sobbed.

"The same way daughters have gone on after their fathers' deaths all throughout history," said Jim sensibly, finding it hard to imagine the oblivious little Prof Bracewell as any sort of a rock above the size of a pebble. "And you'll have Hippolyta; you won't be alone." Though of course Hippolyta had immediately accused Atalanta of being behind the murder; Jim wondered what this sister's view of the crime might be.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. "Oh, Hippolyta! Really? The w-way she hates me so? The way she treats me? Oh, no no! I c-can't imagine Hippolyta turning to me for any c-comfort in this tragedy, and I certainly don't expect her to offer m-me any comfort either. Why, I wouldn't be surprised at all if… if…!" She broke off then, shot a horrified look his way, and buried her face in the hankie once more.

"You wouldn't be surprised if what, Miss Atalanta?" Jim prompted.

"Oh, oh, please! You needn't be so formal; you may call me Lana."

"Lana, then. You wouldn't be surprised by what, Lana?"

"I… I…" She sat up then and turned away from him. "Oh, I know it must sound terrible to you, for me to even th-think such a thing of my own sister, but I've known her s-so much longer than you have. She's… she's terribly suspicious, terribly. I've no d-doubt but she thinks that somehow _I'm_ behind the disappearance of all the G-Golden Apples, and I wouldn't be surprised if she comes up with some f-f-fantastic tale of how I'm behind Father's m-murder as well!" Her shoulders shook, and she ventured a glance at the man at her side. "She… she hasn't made s-such accusations, has she?"

"What would you do if she had?" asked Jim.

For a moment she hesitated and bit at her pretty bow-shaped lips with her pearly-white teeth. "I… I don't know. Lock myself into my room to keep away from her, I s-suppose. She has such a raging temper, you know!"

"Do you think she might hurt you?"

"I…" Atalanta gave a nervous laugh. "Sh-she's so big! Perhaps? Oh, I don't _know_. But she… that is, whoever killed Father, did she — or he, of course — did they do it alone? Unaided? Or did sh… did the m-murderer have help?"

"That's part of the job Mr Gordon and I will be doing today, Miss Lana: investigating to find out who precisely did this and how." Jim patted her hand and came to his feet. "You stay here in this suite for now and keep the door locked. I'll have some breakfast sent up for you."

She arose as well. "And my clothes? I… I can hardly go out anywhere, not looking like this." She waved a hand at her peignoir. "And especially not to… to… Oh!" She broke down crying again.

Right: the funeral parlor. "Don't worry about that," said Jim. "I'll bring back a bellhop shortly to carry your cases over from the other suite. You just wait here. And keep the door locked."

She blinked up at him shyly. "Th-thank you, Jim. You, ah, you don't mind if I call you 'Jim,' do you? You've been ever so much help! I w-wouldn't know where to turn if not for you!" Again she bit at her lip, her large liquidy eyes looking up at him from under her dark lush lashes, one slender hand resting on Jim's arm.

He smiled down at the lovely girl reassuringly. "Don't worry about a thing, Lana. Artie and I will get to the bottom of all of this as quickly as possible."

"Oh, I'm s-sure you will. You've just been so, so _wonderful!"_ She tipped her head slightly to one side, her big eyes closing.

And Jim kissed her. It was a long, slow kiss, with the girl melting trustingly into his arms.

At length he released her, and watched for a moment as her eyes fluttered open again, a dreamy smile upon her lips.

"Remember what I told you," he said. "Don't let anyone in except for me or Artie. I'll be back shortly with the bellhop." Jim slipped his hat onto his head, touched the brim of it to the lovely Lana, then left the suite and waited briefly to hear her lock the door behind him.

Well… that had gone easier than he'd expected. But there was one thing that was absolutely clear about this case: it was always a very bad idea to have the sisters in the same room together, especially if no one else was present to protect Miss Lana from her angry younger sister.

…

Every three minutes, all throughout their breakfast downstairs in the dining hall — and Artie was beginning to think he could set his watch by it — Miss Hippolyta would glance toward the doorway, then turn a smirk his way. "No sign of either one of them yet," she'd purr.

And Artie was getting tired of her repeated innuendos. He was just considering whether he really absolutely wanted to pick up that sugar-sprinkled grapefruit half from its bowl upon the table and smash the sweetened citrus full into the dear lady's face, when a deep melancholic voice rumbled in from the doorway.

"Ah, Mr Gordon! There you are!"

Both Artie and Miss Hippolyta looked up to see a vaguely familiar man — tall, lean, and balding, with a long, lugubrious face — come wending his way through the tables. Upon reaching their side, the man bowed and intoned, "Good morning, Mr Gordon, Miss Bracewell. I apologize for interrupting your morning repast, but there _are_ arrangements to be made for the, ah, the obsequies tomorrow afternoon, and I thought it best not to waste time." He paused and added, "Naturally I have no wish to intrude upon Miss Bracewell's grief, but these matters are urgent, and…"

"Oh, right," Hippolyta cut in loudly, "I remember you now. You're the undertaker from last night."

"Oh yes, Mr, ah…" Artie gave a watery smile. "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I've forgotten your name, sir."

"Prior. Hezekiah Prior." The undertaker offered his hand, and Artie rose to take it. But even as he murmured a polite, "Good morning, Mr Prior," Hippolyta's voice arose to interrupt yet again.

"Priam?" she said in horror. "Your name is _Priam?"_

"Ah… no, Prior," the lean man corrected, shooting a puzzled look Mr Gordon's way. "Hezekiah Prior, as I said. I have a card…"

" _Hector Priam?"_ Miss Hippolyta all but shrieked, spilling her chair over as she leapt to her feet.

"No," said the undertaker again. "No no, _not_ Hector. Hezekiah! Hezekiah Prior." He fumbled a calling card from an interior pocket of his ebony frock coat and presented it to her. "There. There, you see? That's my name." He pointed.

With scowling mistrust hooding her eyes, Miss Hippolyta reached out slowly, then snatched the card from the man's hand. She peered at the business card closely, first through her glasses, then over the tops of the lenses. "Hmph," she said at last and stowed the card away in her handbag. "Well, anyone can get a card with anything they want printed upon it…" she muttered darkly.

Again the undertaker glanced at Mr Gordon in surprise, while Artie shot the Amazon a quelling glare — not that he expected anything short of a good tight gag around her mouth to ever quell _her_. "Tha-thank you very much, Mr Prior," said Artie. "We'll be along to your funeral parlor shortly to finalize all the arrangements."

"Ah, good, good. And you'll bring both of Prof Bracewell's daughters with you? That is, I seem to recall that you and Mr West mentioned last night that the dear departed had two, er…" He cast a glance at the Amazon, finding that she stood a good inch taller than he, and finished lamely with, "…ah, two lovely daughters."

"Oh, yes," Artie was endeavoring to reply, when once more Miss Hippolyta's voice overrode his. "In fact, no!" she declared triumphantly, eyes flashing. "My father did not have _two_ lovely daughters, but only one: my sister Atalanta. _I_ am the other one, the one who is distinctly _not_ lovely, and I invariably resent every attempt to flatter me by bestowing upon me such an inappropriate adjective as the one you have just employed, Mr Priam!"

"Prior!"

"Ha!" In a state of high dudgeon, the woman swept off among the tables and disappeared out the door.

"Drama queen," Artie muttered in disgust. To the baffled Mr Prior the agent offered the reassurance that both Misses Bracewell would be putting in an appearance at the funeral parlor at their earliest opportunity, then Artie strode off to follow his wayward charge. After all, he was still supposed to be guarding her — though the longer he had to hang around with that insufferable woman, the more tempting was the thought that if anything did happen to her, it would only be what she deserved!


	8. Act Two, Part Three

**Act Two, Part Three**

Jim, descending the stairs, met Artie coming up. "How's it going?" he inquired.

"Oh, peachy, Jim. Just absolutely peachy! Say, you didn't pass Miss Hippolyta on the stairs just now, did you?"

"No, she hasn't come this way. What, you lost her?"

Artie snorted. "I wish! No, she's gotta be here somewhere. Anyway…" And he filled Jim in on the events at breakfast, after which Jim reciprocated with the outcome of breaking the news to Atalanta. Well, most of it.

"So," Jim finished, "since Mr Prior has already been by to request the ladies' presence, I'll let you handle that while I…"

" _Me_ handle it!" Artie broke in. "Me, try to keep that harpy, that wannabe Fury in check all by myself? James, _James!_ Why would you do such a thing? Why would you abandon me in my hour of need?"

"Because we still have to investigate the professor's death, and we only have some…" He glanced at his pocket watch. "…eighteen hours of the twenty-four Hippolyta allotted to us left. If we both have to escort the sisters to the funeral parlor, that will leave us precious little time to prove Atalanta's innocence."

"Hmm. True. And I wouldn't put it past Hippolyta to go off into her Fury act the very second the twenty-four hours are up either." Artie shook his head. "I'm telling you, Jim, the sooner this case is over and I never have to lay eyes on that Amazon again, the better I'll like it!"

Jim gave a soft chuckle and thumped his partner on the shoulder. "Oh, it won't be much longer. Now, Miss Lana needs some clothes, and I was going to have a bellhop come shift her things to our suite. You go on up and stay with her while I do that, and if I spot Hippolyta while I'm downstairs, I'll try to steer her your way. And once that's done…"

"Yeah?"

Jim quirked an eyebrow at his partner. "Then I'll try to scare up Hippolyta's mythical attacker, the one who's supposed to have all those fresh gouges across his face."

"Ah. Right. The Pretty Boy."

"Mm-hmm. If he exists." Jim nodded to Artie, and then the agents parted, each to see about his agreed-upon tasks.

…

In the main conference room of the hotel a committee meeting was about to begin. The dozen men there chattered amongst themselves as they polished off the remnants of breakfast — until at length the chairman of their group wiped his mouth, gaveled the meeting to order, then intoned solemnly, "Gentlemen, there is no other course open before us. We must shut down the conference immediately."

"Shut… shut it down! No!" came the cries of protest:

"But what of the papers? We've barely begun!"

"All these scientists, Mr Chairman! They've worked so hard preparing their exhibits, their presentations. Surely they're not to be turned away, sent home before their colleagues can learn of their new discoveries!"

"And besides," added the treasurer, "if we shut down now, all the attendees will want their admission tickets refunded, and how are we supposed to do that? We already spent the bulk of the money they paid us in order to rent this hotel!"

Everyone turned to stare coldly at him. "A man has died, Mr Treasurer," the chairman reminded him.

"Yes, yes, we're all aware of that."

"And what's more, the deceased was no less a personage than our own esteemed keynote speaker!"

From somewhere in the back of the room floated an incautious comment of "And what a fascinating address he gave us last night, too!" which immediately brought forth a round of horrified denouncements — along with, perhaps, a few well-concealed snickers of agreement.

Again the chairman hammered his gavel, demanding order. "That was in fact and indeed completely uncalled for, sir!" he growled at the quipster. "Why, consider Bracewell's poor daughters, still reeling from the death of their mother, and now left all alone in this cruel world, without friend, without support, with indeed none else in all the world but each other to turn to, to lean upon, to commiserate and console each other. No doubt this very moment the sorrowing young ladies are sitting together side by side up in their suite, crying their eyes out, bewailing the loss of their beloved father and…"

"I can guarantee you that's not the case," broke in a voice.

Startled, the chairman harrumphed and smote the gavel upon his table once again, this time nearly sending his breakfast plate dancing right over the edge. As the treasurer caught the plate and slid it to safety in the middle of the table, the chairman sputtered, "Who is that? Who is that man? He's not a member of this committee! How dare he interrupt? How dare…!"

The man in question, a handsome young fellow in a blue bolero suit, interrupted yet again. "My name is James West. I'm one of the Federal agents assigned to the Bracewell family, and I assure you there is no reason whatsoever to shut down this conference to spare the feelings of the professor's daughters. And I have very good reason to request the conference go on as scheduled."

The chairman gawped at him. "But good Heavens, man, it's hardly decent to continue with this event in light of last night's, ah… most, most unfortunate occurrence!"

"Last night's occurrence is precisely why I must insist the conference continue," said West. And as the members of the committee stared in consternation and murmured among themselves, Jim added, "A murder has been committed, and I have only until the conference ends to catch that murderer." He didn't bother to mention the much shorter time limit Miss Hippolyta herself had imposed upon the two agents. "So if you go ahead and close the conference now, you'll leave me with precious little time to find the murderer. He and everyone else here will scatter to the four winds, leaving Bracewell's murder unsolved — and don't you suppose _that_ is the one thing the man's daughters want most of all right now, for the murderer to be caught?"

"Ah…" The chairman looked around at the other members of the committee, seeing each and all nod in assent. "Well… Very well, Mr West, we acquiesce. The conference shall continue as scheduled. And good luck to you in finding the culprit!" He banged the gavel on the table emphatically.

"Thank you, Mr Chairman," said Jim and strode from the room. And behind him the treasurer in particular heaved a great sigh of relief.


	9. Act Two, Part Four

**Act Two, Part Four**

He could have predicted it, Artie groused inwardly on the ride back to the hotel. No — no, he _had_ predicted it! The visit to the funeral parlor had been disastrous, and all the blame for the debacle could only be laid squarely and fairly at the outsized feet of one Miss Hippolyta Bracewell.

It had started out innocently enough. Once the three of them arrived at the undertaker's, Miss Atalanta, leaning heavily on Artie's arm, had ventured across the tastefully decorated parlor to view her late lamented father lying there in his casket, his brow smooth, his wispy gray hair brushed back, his aged hands folded neatly across his middle. The unfortunate young woman gave a gasp and dissolved into tears on the shoulder of the avuncular Mr Gordon. Gently he led her away to a chair and offered the use of his handkerchief, which she declined. After several minutes of weeping profusely into her own pink lace hankie, Atalanta blinked back the tears, composed herself, then essayed the opinion of "Oh, b-but he d-does look so natural, d-don't you think s-so, Mr Gordon?"

" _Natural!"_ came a scoffing braying voice, intruding itself into the cozy tête-à-tête. "Natural, my eye!" Miss Hippolyta snarled. "What an utterly asinine thing to say! You know perfectly well, Lana, that it could only be accurate to describe Father as 'looking natural' right now if his normal, everyday aspect had been that of a wax dummy in Madame Tussaud's!"

Miss Atalanta's comely lower lip quivered anew. "P-p-polly, p-please!" she whimpered, even as Artie turned a stern look the Amazon's way. "Now, Miss Hippolyta," he began.

"Oh, _really!_ Don't you defend her, Mr Gordon!" Hippolyta returned hotly. "To extol that… that _caricature_ of humanity over there as our father looking _natural_ was beyond ridiculous, and you know it! And as for you!" She shifted her glower towards her sister. "Don't you _ever_ call me Polly!"

"Now, Miss Bracewell," the undertaker intervened, "I must assure you that your father has had the finest of care here at Prior & Sons, and that in preparing his earthly remains for his final resting place, we have used nothing but the highest quality of materials and the most advanced of scientific methods, in order to guarantee that…"

"Oh, modernity indeed!" Miss Hippolyta broke in with a sniff. "When it would be readily apparent to anyone with half a brain that a famous archaeologist such as Father would much prefer to be preserved according to the time-honored traditions of Ancient Greece, if not Ancient Egypt!"

"What, either jammed into a sarcophagus to molder into dust in six months' time, or else swathed up as a mummy to wizen like an apple, and perhaps end up on permanent display in some museum?" Mr Prior scoffed, plainly affronted by the Amazon's scalding evaluation of his handiwork. "My dear Miss Bracewell, I personally warrant that here at Prior & Sons our methods have always met and exceeded the expectations of the loved ones of our dearly departeds. We have always provided our clients with complete satisfaction, and always shall!"

"Ha!" proclaimed the scornful young Amazon. "Then your personal warrant, Mr Priam, is perfectly worthless, for _I_ am most assuredly _not_ satisfied!" She folded her arms and glared down at the undertaker from her full height.

"We meet and exceed the _reasonable_ expectations of _reasonable_ people, Miss Bracewell!" the man lashed back. "And my name…"

"Oh, then I am unreasonable, is that what are you saying, Mr Priam?"

"If the shoe fits, Miss Bracewell," he retorted hotly. "And my name is _not Priam!"_

"Please, please, Miss Hippolyta, Mr Pri, Pri, uh… _Prior!_ If you will just…" Artie interposed himself between the two, trying with all his stores of charm and persuasion to quell this brewing storm while the remaining Bracewell sister continued to sit in her chair, lace hankie in hand, watching mutely with large, exquisite eyes as the drama played out before her.

It had not been pretty, Artie thought later through gritted teeth as he escorted the pair of bereaved young ladies back to the hotel. Miss Atalanta sat quietly at his side in the carriage, giving an occasional meek sniffle, while Miss Hippolyta raged on over all the injustices that had been heaped upon her in the past few months, beginning with the death of her mother, the disappearance of the Apples one after another, the imposition of ineffectual Secret Service agents into her life, the murder most foul of her beloved father, and now the obtrusion of that simply _impossible_ Mr Priam to boot, a man who no doubt was yet another henchman of the diabolic mastermind behind all these varied evils that had been thrust upon Hippolyta of late. "And you know precisely of whom I speak, Mr Gordon!" she finished grandly, with a withering glare aimed at her elder sister.

"Hippolyta," Artie hissed back warningly. "Remember our agreement: our time isn't up yet."

"Hmph!" she scoffed. "There's not enough time in all the ages for you to prove the truth to be a lie!"

"Especially considering that you already have your mind made up and you'll no doubt reject out of hand whatever facts we uncover," Artie returned.

"It is _you_ , you and your partner, whose eyes are closed to the truth, Mr Gordon. Not I, not I!"

"Wh-wh-what are you talking about?" Atalanta faltered, looking back and forth between the pair of them.

Hippolyta let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, but how well my dear sister has perfected her pose of sweet innocence! You know precisely what I am speaking of, Lana. While you have been batting your big blue eyes at Mr West and Mr Gordon, busily playing the role of an ingénue, _I_ have been working day and night in an attempt to counteract the evil that has been plotted against Father and his work."

Her jaw clenched briefly, and Artie took advantage of her momentary silence to growl warningly, "Miss Hippolyta…"

Her eyes flashed. "The fact that my attempts have apparently failed does not deter me, Mr Gordon! I tell you again, here and now, that if you wish to find the mastermind behind the thefts of the Apples and the death of my father, you need look no farther than…"

"Miss Hippolyta!" Artie snapped. "Not another word! Make that accusation without proof, and you have no idea how much trouble your mouth will bring raining down upon your head! And now," he added, his voice quieting to its usual volume as their carriage drew up before the hotel, "we're back." He drew a deep breath, exited the cab, helped Atalanta out and found himself on the receiving end of a glare from Hippolyta when he offered her a hand down as well. As the Amazon stormed on into the hotel under her own power, Artie tossed the cabbie a coin, then gave Atalanta a half-hearted smile as he crooked his elbow to her. "Shall we go up?" he said.

Once all three of his passengers had disappeared into the building, the cabbie caught the eye of a fellow casually loitering around a nearby corner, then distinctly nodded his head in the direction of the trio he had just dropped off. The loiterer nodded back in response, then disengaged himself from holding up the side of the building and headed up the stairs and into the hotel on the trail of Artemus Gordon and the Bracewell girls.

 **End of Act Two**


	10. Act Three, Part One

**Act Three, Part One**

What a waste of a day, Jim thought as he strolled around the perimeter of the hotel eying any and all who came into view. He'd divided his time between searching for the final missing Apple and discreetly watching out for the man upon whose face Miss Hippolyta had supposedly left fresh scratches. Among other things, Jim had asked for the aid of Dermot Parrish and his security guards to keep watch for the marked man, but if anyone had seen him, no one had yet informed Jim.

A carriage was just rattling off away from the front entrance of the hotel as Jim rounded the corner. Jim caught a glimpse of Artie walking into the building with the enchanting figure of Miss Atalanta on his arm. With a brief smile at his partner's alacrity to seize on this chance at becoming better acquainted with the young lovely, Jim stepped a bit quicker, intending to catch up with Artie.

And then he saw a loiterer detach himself from the shadows of a corner to casually follow Artie inside. Jim's eyebrow quirked. Artie had a tail? Well, now Artie's tail could have a tail as well. Quietly Jim joined the end of the impromptu parade.

…

It was no surprise to Artie that Miss Hippolyta had taken over the Bracewell suite once more, locking her sister out. In fact, he barely missed a beat in steering his companion on down the hall toward his and Jim's suite instead. "Looks like you'll be our guest a bit longer, Miss Atalanta," he said as he fished in his pocket for his hotel key.

"It's… it's all right, Mr Gordon. The company is far more pleasant," she said softly.

He glanced at her, catching the troubled look on her face. Poor kid! How would she ever make it now, with neither mother nor father to act as a buffer between her and her sister? He found the key and pulled it from his pocket.

"And besides," the girl continued, "I did so want to ask you abou… M-mercy! Wh-wh-what is that?" She pointed at the floor.

What could have startled the girl, Artie wondered. He looked down, only to discover belatedly that in taking the hotel key from his pocket, he had also dislodged a handkerchief which now lay at his feet. And not his own handkerchief, either. With an inward wince he recognized it as the lacy lavender cloth he'd found near Prof Bracewell's body. Swiftly Artie bent and scooped it up, intending to tuck it away into a deeper pocket. "Oh, it's nothing," he said easily, hoping Miss Atalanta wouldn't also recognize it.

His hope was in vain. She caught at his hand before he could get the hankie out of her sight, her eyes like saucers as she stared at the bit of cloth, looking for all the world as if she'd seen a ghost. "Wh…" she stammered, "where d-did you g-get that?"

"Oh, I just found it somewhere, that's all," he smiled, still endeavoring to put her at ease. He at last got the hankie put away, then opened the door and steered her to the sofa. "Let me get you a glass of water," he offered.

She drank gratefully, then gave him a quick sheepish smile. "I… I'm sorry, Artemus. I _m-may_ call you Artemus, mayn't I?"

He smiled back. "Of course. That would be perfectly fine."

"It's just… oh, it's been such a h-horrible day, Artemus! First to learn the t-t-terrible thing that happened to F-father, and then to endure P-polly's n-n-nastiness. And now _that!"_ She dropped her face into her hands and began to weep.

"That?" Artie sat down by the distraught young woman and offered her his own handkerchief.

With a shake of her head, Atalanta produced that lacy pink cloth of her own and set about soaking it.

Artie sat by her side, feeling the usual male discombobulation in the presence of feminine tears. Hoping to put an end to the waterworks, he made a new attempt at conversation. "Miss Atalanta, what do you mean by 'that'?"

She sniffled and glanced up at him. "The… that hankie you have. The one you say you f-found."

"Oh, _that_ that! But what about it?"

"Well, it's my… my, uh…" Abruptly she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "It's my sister's!" she declared.

"Hippolyta's?" Artie pulled out the lavender cloth and unfolded it to look at the large embroidered _H_ surrounded by lilacs. Well, he thought with sinking heart, that confirmed his and Jim's suspicions about the hankie's origin. "But why are you crying?" he asked. After all, Atalanta didn't know where he'd found it!

"B… because you… you wouldn't say wh-where you'd gotten it, and you tr-tried to make me think that, that nothing was wrong. But if there really _was_ nothing wrong, y-y-you would have told me where it came f-from! So that means there _is_ something wrong — and that it has to do with P-p-polly!"

"Ah…" Artie found himself momentarily speechless in the face of female logic that had somehow, by means of a path that seemed — from the view point of his own masculine ratiocination — to have traveled in labyrinthian loop-de-loops and corkscrews, and yet had managed to arrive at the conclusion that Hippolyta's handkerchief being in Artie's possession was a piece of damning evidence indeed. Grasping at straws in an attempt to distract Atalanta once more, he said, "You, um… you were about to ask me a question a few minutes ago, just before I, er, opened the door."

"J-just before you dropped the hankie, you mean!" she retorted.

"Uh… well… Yes… yes, that's true." Slowly he refolded the hankie in question along its precisely ironed-in right-angle creases, then slipped it back into his pocket. "But the question," he added. "What did you wish to ask me?"

"I…" She twisted her own lacy handkerchief around her fingers, her sweet lower lip quivering in her distress. "I wanted to know what you and P-polly were t-talking about in the c-c-cab. You kept trying to get her to hush, and obviously whatever it was about, you didn't want me to know. And I… well…" She dabbed her eyes and blinked up at him. "I… I think there are too many secrets being k-kept from me, Artemus. What _is_ going on? What was Polly talking about? And how does her handkerchief have anything to do with it?" Hesitatingly she reached out a hand and laid it over Artie's. "P-please, Artemus! P-please, d-don't hide the truth from me!"

Artie looked into those big, gorgeous, tear-rimmed blue eyes, hemmed, attempted to haw, then gave up and told her of his and Jim's suspicions.

…

The man on Artie's tail had looked disappointed to discover that the agent had only escorted the prettier sister up to his own suite. With a frown the stalker glared at the closed door for a moment, then turned the glare towards the Bracewell suite as well. "This ain't gettin' us nowhere closer to that danged Apple," he muttered to himself. "Already searched both those suites! Thought followin' them agents around would lead us to the Apple, but that ain't workin' either!" He gave a snort of exasperation, then added, "Great. Better report in, I guess." He turned back to the stairs and started down, never noticing the flash of movement just before he reached the stairs, nor the pair of hands that were grasping, of all things, two of the newels from the outside. No, he just kept on going, arrived at the next landing, turned the corner there — and thus he also missed seeing a body rise up slowly from the outside of the balustrade. After a quick look around, Jim West vaulted back over the banister onto the stairs to hurry silently after the departing stalker. That man was planning to report in to someone, and Jim had every intention of discovering who that someone was, confident that such knowledge would at long last break this case wide open!

…

Miss Atalanta was using her hankie again. "Th-th-then… then you and M-mr West… you think P-polly is behind everything? Th-that she st-stole the Apples, and she also m-m-mur… Oh!" With a wail she disappeared into the hankie's lacy depths.

"I'm so sorry," Artie murmured, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders, only to find a moment later that she had fallen against his chest, still crying. "Now, now," he tried again, starting to feel very conflicted by the presence of such a lovely young woman in his arms. "Ev… uh, everything's going to work out in the end. You'll see."

"But… but…" She lifted her face to look up into his — so close she was, so very close! "But if she k-killed Father and tried to blame me for it, what's to stop her from k-killing me too?"

"Ah… Well, that's my job, and Jim's. We'll be right here to…"

"But you were right here for F-father too, and you weren't able to keep _him_ from being k-killed!"

Why did everyone insist on repeatedly pointing that out? "Yes, but this time we'll be on our guard all the more. No more little trips by yourself in the middle of the night, the way your father…"

Atalanta shook her head. "But she lured him away while you weren't l-looking! No, no, she's too clever for us! She's always b-been the clever one. She'll find a way to get at me, I know she will! And b… besides that…" She shook her head again and burrowed her cheek against his chest, sobbing anew.

"Sh, sh," said Artie, gently stroking her blonde locks. "Besides what, Miss Atalanta?"

"Oh… It's… it's Lana, you know…" she murmured demurely.

"Besides what, Lana?" he asked again.

"Well…" She shifted slightly, snuggling closer. "It's just that y-you — and, and Mr West, of course — are only here for the r-rest of the conference. Then you'll go b-back to your regular lives and leave me all alone with… with the terrible beast that my sister has become. And then I'll have no one to protect me from her! She'll… she'll k-kill me for sure!" Again she burrowed against him in tears.

"Now now, no, she won't," he spoke reassuringly.

"But how can you _know_ that?" she cried. "How can you be sure? She's a m-monster! She'll kill me for sure, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop her! I could… I could try to run away, to hide from her, but she'd surely find me! One day, some day when I would least expect it, suddenly she'd be there, suddenly she'd kill me, and there's not a thing that anyone can…"

Her eyes widened with horror and she flung a hand over her mouth. "Oh!" she whispered. "Un… unless… but no, th-that's _horrible!"_

"What's horrible, Lana?"

She stared up at him, those big blue eyes filling with tears yet again. "She… she couldn't k-kill me if she were already… Oh no, I c-can't even bring myself to say it!"

"If she were already… What?" he pressed.

But she only shook her head. "No! No, I can't say it! It was horribly wicked of me to have even thought of it! P-please, Artemus, just f-f-forget about it. I shouldn't have said a thing." She shuddered and rested her cheek against his chest once more.

"If she were already what?" he asked again, lifting her chin so that she had to look him in the eye.

She gave a watery smile and shook her head. "No. No, you're such a dear, sweet man. A _g-good_ man! You'd never do such a thing, not even to save an innocent life from a wicked k-killer." Softly she touched his cheek, then stretched up and kissed him gently where her hand had touched. "You're such a wonderful man, Artemus, and I'm so weak and foolish. I should never have even thought such a thing, much less said anything." Again she kissed him.

But this time it was on the lips.

"Please, Artemus," she whispered, drawing back from him barely an inch, "just forget about everything I said. It was a terrible idea. I could never ask you to do such a thing, and of course you would never do it."

"Do, ah… do what?" he murmured even as she pressed her luscious lips against his once more.

"Why, kill Polly so that she can't kill me! It was a terrible thought; please forgive me for thinking it." Again she kissed him.

"K… kill Polly!" He gave a laugh. "Now, how would I even go about doing that?" And he surrendered to yet another of her delicious kisses.

"Oh…" she whispered between kisses, "suppose you invited her to dinner… not here, but in her suite… you could sweet-talk her, try to get out of her where she's hidden the last Apple, the one she stole during the trip here… and once you know that, you could… you could put something into her drink… something to make her fall asleep and never wake up again… something quiet… painless… easy." She gave him still another kiss, then laughed. "Oh, but of course you'd never do such a thing!" She dimpled at him and brushed her fingers over his cheek. "Oh, Artemus, you darling man, I feel so safe with you!" Another kiss, and she sprang up from the sofa. "Oh, but do pardon me, darling, while I, er, freshen up a bit." A lingering smile she bestowed upon him, then tripped off to one of the bedrooms, turning to give him a fond glance and a waggle of her fingers just before she disappeared beyond the door and closed it behind her.

For a long moment Artie sat there, staring after her. Then he drew in a deep breath, blew it out, and muttered to himself. "Something in her drink, something to make her fall asleep, and…" Slowly, as if hypnotized, he arose and went to rummage in his luggage amongst the bottles of chemicals he'd brought along with him.


	11. Act Three, Part Two

**Act Three, Part Two**

Jim was beginning to suspect he was being led on a wild goose chase. Down the main stairs the stalker had gone, then on through the lobby and along the hallway beyond, hurrying by the multitude of meeting rooms in which the multitude of presentations were even now being made. But the man only pushed on, giving occasional quick glances behind him; each of these times Jim was able to slip into a recessed doorway or behind a piece of bric-a-brac, and so he escaped his quarry's notice.

Shortly they left behind the public areas of the hotel and entered the employees-only section, passing along service corridors and down narrow back stairways. Jim continued to track the man, keeping out of sight.

And then the fellow came to a door. With a clandestine glance both ways that sent Jim ducking back beyond the corner he'd been about to turn, the man tapped at the door: _rat-a-tat_ , pause, _rat-tat-a-tat_.

A second later the door opened and the stalker slipped through. A second after that, Jim was at the door and pressing his ear to it. No, it was too quiet in there; he couldn't hear a thing. Surreptitiously he tried the knob, and found it locked.

All right. He hadn't come this far to learn nothing. Swiftly but quietly Jim made use of the trusty lock pick from under his lapel, then eased the door open an inch to hear what he could hear.

What he heard was the all-too-familiar _ka-click_ of a gun being cocked, followed by a voice behind him. "Well, if it isn't Mr West! About time you showed up. Y'know, we've been chasing around after you all day long, hoping you or Mr Gordon would lead us to that last Apple. And now… well, come on in and make yourself at home, sir — because you're going to tell us everything you know." And the cold metal muzzle of a gun was pressed to Jim's head, impelling him toward the darkened room beyond the door.

…

Slowly and deliberately Artemus Gordon loaded a certain amount of white powder into the hidden recess behind the gemstone of a special ruby ring, latched the ring shut, then slipped it onto his finger. There. With a deep breath he straightened his vest and jacket, smoothed down his hair, and checked his reflection in the mirror of the main room of his suite. Fine, fine, that would do. He stepped out into the hall and locked the door behind him. Then down the hall he went, only to pause a long moment before the door of the Bracewell suite. He closed his eyes for a bit, took a breath and let it out, then drew himself up and put on a bright smile and even brighter voice as he knocked on the door. "Miss Hippolyta!"

"Go away!" came her growl as response.

"Oh, but… but, Miss Hippolyta! I'm… I'm sure you'll want to hear this. Jim and I have, er…" His mind raced briefly as he sought the very thing that would get him inside that suite. "We've… well, we've discovered some evidence. The sort of evidence we were talking about. The kind that… that proves, uh, that… that you were right and we were wrong."

For a long second there came no sound from the Bracewell suite. Then the lock clicked over and the door opened, revealing Miss Hippolyta staring down at him, her face wary but on the verge of joy. "Indeed?" she said cautiously.

After the briefest of pauses, he nodded. "Yes. Yes indeed. May I, er, come in?"

"By all means, Mr Gordon, by all means!" Hippolyta ushered him inside and locked the door behind him.

…

Jim paused in the doorway. The voice of the gunman behind him was vaguely familiar. Hoping that a larger sample of the man's talk might give him a valuable clue, Jim inquired, "And who is this 'us' you expect me to tell everything to?"

"You'll figure that out soon enough, I suppose," grunted the gunman. "And once you have… Well, we'll just have to make sure you don't pass that knowledge on to anyone else, right? Now, get moving!" He pressed the gun muzzle more firmly against Jim's head, and gave him a shove with his other hand to boot.

Somehow, Jim lost his balance. He stumbled forward through the doorway, his head suddenly no longer where the gunman thought it ought to be. And even as his captor yelped, "Hey!" and tried to get a bead on him again, Jim whirled, his balance not really lost at all. Up came one forearm, smacking into the gunman's wrist, blocking him from regaining his aim. Up came Jim's other fist as well, crashing into the guy's chin. Down went the gunman in one direction, his revolver in another. And just as Jim sprang to try to recover the weapon within this darkened room…

The room became no longer dark. In the far wall a door burst open and both light and men spilled through it, among them the man Jim had been tailing. As Jim came to his knees with the lost gun in hand, the others filled their hands too, charging into the room and all around its perimeter, all guns but his own pointed straight at him.

Then two more men emerged from the far room. And the moment he saw them, Jim realized instantly which of the Bracewell sisters he should have been listening to all along.

…

Dinner was served. Artie had not found it easy to convince Miss Hippolyta to share this late meal with him here in her suite. Nor was it pleasant now having to watch her — she was displaying the most appalling table manners! — and to hear her as she gloated over Artie's claim to have found the evidence that proved her right.

At last, inevitably, she asked the question he had been dreading. "So where is this evidence? Lay it before me, that I may see it!"

"I, ah… I can't show it to you just yet. I need Jim to be here as well. We should show it to you together."

"Oh?" She took a swig of her wine. "Then where is he? Why didn't you arrive together if you need to present it to me together?"

"He's, er… busy. A bit tied up. Just for the moment, you understand."

In fact, where _was_ Jim? Artie would be much happier if he could only consult with his partner! Jim needed to know what Lana had revealed to Artie about the hankie and about, well, everything else too. He'd be much more confident about the course of action he'd decided to take if only Jim were aware of what was going on. But as things stood now…

Hippolyta held out her glass. "More wine," she demanded.

With an only minimally fake smile, Artie took the goblet, poured it full, and laid his hand over the mouth of the glass as he passed it back to her. The fact that she immediately took a big gulp of the wine showed plainly that she hadn't noticed the fine white powder that had fallen from Artie's ring into her drink.

Well, the die was cast now! It was only a matter of time from here on in, Artie knew.


	12. Act Three, Part Three

**Act Three, Part Three**

Jim strained against the ropes which held him tied up in one corner of the small, brightly-lit room from which those two men had emerged, the one with the day-old scratches across his cheek, and the other…

"Dermot Parrish, chief of security," Jim named him. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

Parrish grinned at his captive, then dismissed the bulk of his men. "We'll take it from here, boys." With the air of a conquering king, Parrish perched himself on the edge of the desk that filled most of the room. "Why, Mr West," he said triumphantly, "we're doing exactly what we were hired to do: we're providing security for old Bracewell's treasures."

"By following my partner? By capturing me? By…" and here he nodded toward Parrish's one remaining minion in the room. "…by waylaying Miss Hippolyta so that she couldn't protect her father?"

Parrish glanced at his man. "There was a, er… certain party who wanted to speak with the old man alone. Regarding the final Apple, of course. She thought _he_ had it. And when it turned out he didn't, well…"

"You had to get rid of the witness."

Parrish had the grace to cast his eyes down, obviously disturbed. "Look, it wasn't my idea to knock the old guy off. He wasn't supposed to find out who the lady was he was talking to. So when he did… well, it was his own dumb luck, that's all."

"Because he wasn't supposed to find out that Miss Atalanta was behind the thefts," Jim stated.

"Miss… Yeah, yeah, sure! He wasn't supposed to know that. You're pretty sharp, Mr West."

"Just a bit too sharp," the scarred man added.

"Yep, ain't that the truth!" Parrish agreed. "We been following you and your partner all day long hoping one of you would lead us to that last Apple, but since you didn't… Well, that's _your_ dumb luck, I guess." He grinned and drew the gun from the holster at his hip.

"Who says I didn't?" said Jim quickly.

Parrish and his man paused and shared a startled glance. "You… you mean you _do_ know where the last Apple is? Where?"

"Its location is a bit hard to describe. I'll need to take you to it."

Parrish's eyes narrowed. "Oh you will, will you? Y'know what? I don't think I trust you, Mr West. I think you'd better tell me where that Apple is — and tell me right _now_ _—_ or you won't be in much shape to talk to anyone ever again." And he lifted the gun to aim it steadily right at a point between Jim's eyes, then drew back the hammer.

"Kill me and you'll never find the third Apple," said Jim coolly. "Artie doesn't know where it is. Only I know."

"Only you, yeah," said Parrish. "You and that big ol' cursed bluestocking! We know she took it — she's the only one could have — but we're under orders…"

The man with the scratches reached out and thrust the barrel of Parrish's gun towards the ceiling. "Under orders not to touch that 'cursed bluestocking.' Remember? So if we kill _him_ , we can't go after _her_. He's telling the truth, Boss: we kill him, we'll never find that Apple."

With a glower, Parrish uncocked the gun and put it away. "Dang it, you're right, Cass! I wish you weren't, but you are. Here." Now he pulled out a knife instead. "Cut him loose, but keep his hands tied together behind his back. West, I still don't trust you, but you're gonna lead us to that Apple. Get up and get moving!"

As soon as he'd cut away the rest of the ropes, the scarred man grabbed Jim's arm and hefted him to his feet, keeping his boss' knife in hand just in case he might need it. And the three set off, Jim leading the way.

…

Where was Jim? Artie sure hoped that when he'd told Miss Hippolyta that Jim was a bit tied up, it hadn't been the literal truth!

The Amazon, seated on the sofa across the dining table from Artie, leaned back into the cushions and rubbed at the bridge of her nose, dislodging her glasses in the process. "Oof! That's stronger wine than I expected. Going right to my head." She shot him a gimlet glare. "You aren't trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me, are you?"

The sudden shock on Artie's face as he exclaimed, "Miss Hippolyta!" sent her off into a throaty cackle.

"Heh! Guess not. Pity — you're kinda cute, y'know," she slurred, then hiccupped. And that was followed by a puzzled frown. "I don't… feel quite right," she muttered.

No, surely she didn't! "What's wrong, Miss Hippolyta?" Artie asked solicitously.

"I… don't know." She yanked her blue lace hankie out of the cuff of her sleeve to mop at her face. "Woozy. Queasy. Something's… something's wrong…"

Abruptly her eyes flicked to her dinner on the table before her. "My food? Did someone… Mr Gordon, is there… is there… poison… in my food?"

Artie took up the plate and sniffed of it. "I don't think so, Miss Hippolyta."

Now her gaze fell on the wine glass. "What… what about that?"

Artie picked it up as well and took a sniff. When he said nothing more, the Amazon crammed her handkerchief over her mouth in horror. Moving it just enough to let the words out, she whispered, "There is! There's something in the glass, isn't there?"

Not looking at her, Artie gave a stiff nod. "Yes, Miss Hippolyta."

"Poison?"

Again he nodded. "Yes, Miss Hippolyta."

"But… but you had some also…"

And again he spoke the words: "Yes, Miss Hippolyta."

Her eyes, blinking rapidly, darted around the room. "This… this is Lana's doing. I know it is! Mr… Mr Gordon, you must help me!"

"Help… ah, help you?"

She leaned forward across the table. "I know you are the agent by which my dear sister has brought about this deadly turn of events. Nevertheless, I must ask your help; I have nowhere else to turn! Please…" Her voice faded and she fell back against the cushions, her breathing labored.

"What do you expect me to do?" said Artie.

She rallied, pushing herself upright on her seat again. "She has tricked you into tricking me, Mr Gordon. You are merely the weapon in her hand. I implore you now: do not let her win! She wants me dead to get me out of her way so that the Apples will be hers and hers alone. But she doesn't know where the third one is! I…" She faded again, rallied again. "I took it," she whispered. "I took it myself to keep it from her grasp."

Artie came around the table to kneel by her sofa. " _You_ took it? You've had it all this time?"

She grasped his hand and nodded. "Yes! And I implore you to keep it from her. Don't let her get it! Please, Mr Gordon!"

Again her voice faded. Her eyes closed as she fought the hardest battle of her life.

"But how can I keep it from her if I don't know where it is?" asked Artie softly.

"I have it," she replied. "I've had it all along. It's hidden…" She broke off again, concentrating on breathing.

"Hidden where?" Artie prompted.

"Hidden…" she panted, face ashen. "…in my… in my… bust…"

Her hand loosened from Artie's as she drooped over sideways across the sofa, eyes closing, muscles relaxing. There she lay, silent, still, as Artie scrambled to his feet, backing away from his handiwork.

From just behind him came an eager voice: "Is she dead?"

…

Jim didn't fail to notice that, as he led Parrish and his buddy Cass through the large room and into the hallway beyond, a half-dozen men fell in behind them. Well, as Artie would put it, the more the merrier, right?

Up the stairs he led his entourage, unerringly retracing the path he'd taken while tailing the original minion. Before long they ran out of the behind-the-scenes areas and reached the public part of the hotel. And Jim continued on…

"Hold it right there!" hissed Parrish, grabbing Jim's arm before he could pass through the final door. He spun the agent to face him. "We can't go out there with you tied up!"

"Then untie me."

"You nuts?" Parrish glowered, shoving his face close to his captive's. "There's no way I'm letting you free! Now, wherever you're taking us, we gotta get there some other way, 'cause we can't let anyone see you tied up." He glanced through the doorway, leery that someone might have already taken notice. "Now where is it you're heading for?"

Up until that moment Jim hadn't made up his mind. Now inspiration struck. "The hotel's back garden, of course."

"Back gard…!" Parrish gawped, then snapped his mouth shut. He knew as well as West did that there was no way to reach that garden from here except by going right through the public hallways. For a long moment the chief of security glowered at the calmly waiting West, well aware that the agent had him over a barrel. "Fine!" he snarled at last. "Cass, you untie him. The rest of you, if West here makes the least little false move, start shooting! Shoot anybody in sight, you hear me?"

The men stared at him, stunned. "But, Boss!" one of them ventured. "Out in the open like that? We'll get caught for sure — and hanged for murder!"

Parrish whirled on him. "You were every one of you ready to perforate West just minutes ago down in the basement; all I had to do then was give the word!"

"Yeah, but that was in secret! No one woulda ever found out. But _here!"_ The recalcitrant minion shook his head, and most of the rest were doing the same.

"Oh, poor little scaredy-cat — lost your nerve, did you?" Parrish sneered. The next second there came the _whack!_ of fist connecting with flesh, followed by the _slam!_ of body connecting with floor. As the unhappy spokesman lay sprawled at his feet groaning, Parrish shook his fist at the rest and hissed, "Now you listen to me and you listen good, all you yellowbellies! When I say 'Jump,' you jump! You got that? I say 'Shoot,' you're gonna shoot. And that's the end of it! Now, let's go!" With a growl Parrish kicked the man on the floor, then stepped over him and led the way on into the public area. And when the others stood hesitating a moment longer, Parrish turned back and hissed, "Now!"

"Y-yes sir," someone spoke up, and they all followed him through the door, Cass last of all having cut Jim loose from his bonds. Parrish snagged Jim's arm and pushed him forward. "Move!" he muttered through gritted teeth.

Jim moved. Parrish was getting rattled, and that was just what Jim wanted. He had no intention of causing a scene out in public amongst all those innocent scientists. Once he had this bunch alone in the back garden though — well, that would be a different matter, wouldn't it?

…

At the question of "Is she dead?" Artie turned around to find Atalanta behind him. Atalanta, whom he had left in his own locked suite, and who wasn't supposed to have either of the keys to this one. Atalanta, whose face and voice bore an almost unholy joy as she gazed down at her sister sprawled on the sofa.

"Dead?" he echoed her question, then nodded. "Of course she's dead. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? The thing you couldn't ask me to do for you?"

She dimpled at him. "It was indeed. And now that she's dead, I don't have to worry about her ever again. And for that matter…" From the reticule dangling from her wrist she produced a small but efficient derringer. "…I have no further use for you either, darling Artemus!" And without so much as batting her luscious eyelashes, she shot him right in the chest.

 **End of Act Three**


	13. Act Four, Part One

**Act Four, Part One**

Night was falling as the group reached the back garden without incident. As Jim stepped forward to stride into the scene — thank Heavens this place was empty! — he heard the _ka-click_ of a gun being cocked behind him. "Hold it right there, West!" Parrish ordered.

Jim spun to face him. "You want the Apple, don't you?" he said coolly, folding his arms.

"Yeah, and you're gonna get it for us!"

A small smile quirked the corner of Jim's mouth. "That's what I was doing. If we can get on with this?" He whirled again and set off once more, heading for the far corner of the garden.

There came the _click_ of a gun being uncocked, followed by the sound of hurrying feet. "Where you going?" Parrish demanded.

"The shed there," Jim replied, nodding towards it.

"But we searched that!"

"Not carefully enough." Jim reached the small building and grasped the handle, hoping it was not locked.

It was.

Swiftly Jim drew out the lock pick from under his lapel and defeated the padlock. He wrenched the hasp aside and threw open the door, ready to step into the darkness within the shed — ready, that was, until a pervasive effluvium, both familiar and obnoxious, smacked him right in the nose and spilled out into the night all around him.

Obviously tools weren't the only thing the gardener stored in this shed! Without setting foot inside, Jim reached in and to the right, hoping to find a lantern hanging from a hook there.

This time, at least, he was not disappointed. He pulled a match from his vest pocket, prudently moved a few feet away from the shed first, then flicked the match alight with his thumbnail and lit the lantern.

Parrish was following right at Jim's elbow. "All right, quit stalling. Where's the Apple?" he demanded, his gun aimed at Jim again.

"Where do you think it is?" Jim countered as he drew close once more to the shed door, holding the lantern aloft to illuminate every bit of the interior of the small building.

"Don't play games with me, West! We searched every corner of this miserable hut!"

"You're sure about that? _Every_ corner?" asked Jim. He glanced about, his eyes landing on a stack of fat burlap bags leaning against the far wall. Whether he'd found the Apple or not, Jim had no doubt he'd located the source of the all-penetrating stench.

Parrish was staring at the bags too, holding a big red bandanna over his nose as he rapidly put two and two together. Then…

"Cass!" he barked. "Whose job was it to search this shed?"

The scar-faced man jerked a thumb at a couple of the milling henchmen. "Roy and Roger there. Told me they didn't find anything."

"Yeah? They search them bags?" Both Parrish and Cass turned to glare at the pair.

Jim could tell from the way neither Roy nor Roger met those glares that he'd guessed right: why would they have bothered to touch those smelly bags if they could just say they had instead with no one the wiser? The federal agent took a step back from the door as Parrish shook his revolver at someone who wasn't him for once. "I ain't standing for this!" the gunman snapped. "Now you get in there and you go through every single one of them dad-blamed sacks — every one of you! Now!" And as the minions filed unhappily into the odoriferous shed, Parrish swung the gun back to train it on West again. "And you with the rest of them! Move it!" he growled.

A look of surprise on his face, Jim touched his own chest with one hand. "Me? You're already sending five men in there; there's not going to be room for anyone more."

"Good point," said Parrish. "Ralph, Bennie, you come back out. Make plenty of room in there for our good friend Mr West. And the rest of you," he continued, a sudden grin on his face, "just hang back and let West pick the first bag to search. And if the Apple ain't in it…" Here he cocked his gun anew. "I'll plug you where you stand."

Jim eyed his captor for a moment. Parrish either had forgotten their earlier conversation about why he shouldn't kill West, or had simply gotten past caring by now. All right… As the remaining three minions stepped back — well back! — to give him room, Jim sauntered inside, hung the lantern back up on its hook, planted his fists on his hips for a second as he surveyed the heap of bagged manure, then said, "We'll have to shift the top few to get at the right bag. Here!" Jim grasped the topmost bag and heaved it at the closest minion.

 _WOOMP!_ The bag caught the fellow full in the chest and knocked him on his keister. As yelling filled the air and Parrish tried to get a bead on West, the agent snatched the small knife from its pocket at the nape of his neck and fired the blade towards the door.

The next moment the shed was plunged into darkness as the knife found its mark, shattering the glass of the lantern. A moment later came an _"_ _Oof!"_ as Jim plowed into one of the other two henchmen in the shed with him. Loud scuffling ensued, while Parrish barked at Cass for a match, a candle, any sort of light by which he could see what was happening.

It took less than half a minute — which felt like ages — before Cass found a candle stub from his pocket and got it lit. He flattened himself against one side of the doorjamb and held up the light so Parrish could look inside.

Where was West? There was Roy on the floor, out cold — Roger too — while the final guy, Sid, lay sprawled and still under that bag of manure. But where was West? Cautiously Parrish entered, gun at the ready, waving Ralph and Bennie in behind him.

 _THWACK!_ The handle of a garden rake, the business end to which it was attached casually covered by an empty burlap bag, whizzed up off the floor and nailed Ralph right between the eyes. As Parrish and Bennie whirled to see Ralph collapsing, a large clay pot came spinning out of nowhere to clonk Bennie on the head. And as that minion fell as well, Parrish wheeled once more, looking to aim at wherever the pot had come from.

Only to find what he was actually looking at was the rapidly-approaching flat of a shovel. _CLONG!_

And now Jim, the last man standing inside the shed, scooped up Parrish's fallen gun and bounded for the door.

"Not so fast, Mr West!" Just outside, with the candle in one hand and a cocked revolver in the other, was the scar-faced man. "You may have taken out the others, but there's still me left."

"That's what it looks like," Jim agreed. "Cass, was it?" He eyed this final opponent, his own gun also cocked, also aimed, also ready, as he took the measure of Parrish's right-hand man. Would Cass shoot? Jim wasn't convinced he would. This, after all, was the man who had managed to calm Parrish down, making solid objections against his boss simply killing their prisoner and getting it over with. If Cass had been coolheaded then, why not now as well? "How about we put away the guns and talk this over like a couple of reasonable men, hmm?" said Jim.

"Yeah? And how about you get back in there and fetch me that golden Apple, hmm?" Cass countered, making a slight gesture toward the shed with his gun.

"And have you lock me up inside it as soon as I'm in there, with a whole bunch of men who aren't going to be members of my fan club when they wake up? I don't think so."

Cass' eyes narrowed. "Then you _were_ bluffing! That Apple ain't in there! So where is it? I want it and I want it right now, so you better not play anymore of your gam…"

 _BLAM!_

Both men flinched at the sound of the gunshot; both whirled toward the source of the sound. They stared up at a balcony high overhead, its open French doors leading into one of the hotel rooms on the third floor.

"That's the Bracewell suite," said Jim almost instantly.

"Brace… Miss Lana!" cried Cass, turning pale.

And both men took off running back into the hotel, pelting along the hallway, then through the lobby and on up the stairs, both uncertain as to what they might find when they arrived at their destination.

…

Voices. Arguing voices. Both female. One was Atalanta's, and the other… Well, it sure sounded like Atalanta's as well! From the floor where he'd landed after his thickly padded bulletproof vest had done its job — though at the expense of a bruise he'd be nursing for weeks to come, he had no doubt — Artie cracked open an eye to see what he could see.

"You killed her! I cannot believe you did that!" came the one voice, somewhat huskier, somewhat older, than Atalanta's.

"Oh, _please!"_ Lana replied. "You can hardly fault me over that, considering that you killed Father."

"I killed him, you silly little girl, because he recognized me! I couldn't have him ruining everything by blabbering to those Federal agents about whom he'd seen, could I? Which he certainly would have done, and you know it! But at any rate, the fact that he hadn't taken the Apple made him of no further importance — unlike your sister! With the old fool eliminated as the thief, obviously _she_ was the one who'd hidden it. And with her now dead, thanks to you — we shall never find it!"

"Oh, no worries about that!" said Lana smugly. "Once Polly knew she was dying, she had to tell someone where it was; she couldn't abide for her great act of brilliance to go unappreciated. So she told him." And Artie saw the young woman's fine fair hand pointed straight at himself.

"Yes, yes, and you so brilliantly overheard her; brava, my dear! But I still say you ran an awful risk. What if she hadn't told him? Or what if she lied?"

"Lied? To _him?_ She was showing off to him! No, I heard her. 'It's in my bust,' she said." Lana came and bent over Hippolyta now, patting at her, tugging at her.

The other, arms folded and tapping an angry foot, watched until it was plainly evident that Lana's search was in vain. "Ah, you see?" she said coldly. "It's not there, Lana. You've lost it to us forever! What good are two of the Golden Apples without the third, you little fool!"

"It's here; it has to be! I know she wasn't lying! She…" Suddenly she gave a laugh. "No, not lying — _slurring!_ That potion of his had taken effect, and she didn't quite say the last word right. Here, help me turn her over…"

Together they rolled Hippolyta off the sofa entirely. "Yes, that will do," said Lana. "It ought to be… Ah, right there! See?" Suddenly Lana was dangling a soft cloth pouch high in the air. "Not _bust_ but _bustle!_ I had wondered why dear sister Polly had suddenly adopted such a fashionable clothing accessory. She's been hiding this Apple in her bustle all this time."

"Never mind flaunting how clever you are, Lana," said the other brusquely. "Open that. Open it now! I want to see the final Apple!"

"Well of course," said Lana meekly as she handed over the pouch. "Here you go, Mama."


	14. Act Four, Parts Two & Three

**Act Four, Part Two**

 _Mama!_ Undead Artie on the floor had quite a time not reacting to that revelation either visibly or audibly. _Mama!_ So not only was Atalanta not the innocent little victim of Hippolyta's dire villainy that she'd made herself out to be, but the sainted Mama Bracewell wasn't all that dead either. Hmph!

"Ah, excellent!" Mama was saying. "The final Apple at last. Mr Knorr will be so pleased!" She started to drop the precious golden orb back inside its pouch.

"Mr… Mr Knorr?" Lana exclaimed. "Who's that?"

"You know him," Mama replied easily. "You've met him. Anton Knorr. You remember: he showed up at the dig shortly after we unearthed the Apples, and he tried…"

"Oh!" Lana gasped. "Yes, I _do_ remember him! He was that ugly old man with all the money who kept pestering Papa to sell him the Apples!"

"Precisely. And when your father stubbornly insisted the Apples had to be donated to some museum, gaining us not a dime in the transaction… Well, I made a private deal of my own with Mr Knorr, you see. That's why…"

"Why you faked your death?"

"Exactly. Gave me a freer hand to spirit away the precious Apples if everyone thought I was a spirit myself." Mrs Bracewell gave a laugh, a low and throaty chuckle. "And as soon as I turn over the final Apple to Mr Knorr and he pays me the rest of the money for it — oh, Lana my dear! You and I shall be in high cotton indeed!" She turned and moved away, out of Artie's limited field of sight.

"But… but…" Lana sputtered, following after her mother. "But, Mama, the Apples are _mine!"_ she wailed.

"Yours? Whatever are you babbling about?"

"They're mine! They have to be! I'm Atalanta, so the Golden Apples of the Sun…"

Mama's bark of incredulous laughter cut her off. "Oh, don't tell me you believe all that bilge I fed poor Polly about our names and our fates! Child, I was priming her to believe I was dying of a raging fever, that's all. You know Polly and her flights of fancy."

"But… Papa died of a wound in his heel…"

"Yes, and I arranged that too, to build up Polly's fantasies and make her look mad. Don't tell me you're falling for the same nonsense she did!"

"But… _mine_ …" Lana whimpered.

"Oh, please! Do let us have not another word about _that!"_ Mama snapped. "I've already delivered the first two Apples to Mr Knorr, and now that we have the third as well, we'll pass it on to him too, and then we'll get all that lovely money he has just waiting for…"

" _No!"_ growled Lana with a stamp of her foot. "No, I see it now! Trying to tell me that our myths have nothing to do with this, when what you're really after is to have that Apple all to yourself! _Helen!_ You think you're Helen of Troy, and that's the Apple of Discord, so it ought to be yours! Well, you're wrong! It's mine, and you're going to give it back to me _right now!"_

From his vantage point on the floor Artie could see neither of the women without needing to shift his head and run the risk of being discovered. He could hear just fine, however — and what he heard next was a gasp from Mrs Bracewell, followed by Miss Lana declaring tearfully, "Give me the Apple back right now, Mama, or I'll shoot you to get it. Don't think I won't!"

And that statement was accompanied by the sound of the hammer on Atalanta's handy little derringer clicking into the cocked position.

…

"I've got the key; I know I have!" Cass hissed urgently, patting at all his pockets. "Parrish made us up a dozen copies so's we could get into the Bracewells' suite any time to search it."

"Fine, fine," Jim snapped back. "That's explains a lot. But the point is that we need to get inside right _now!"_ He grasped the doorknob of the suite in question and rattled it fruitlessly. "Beyond this door someone fired that gun a minute or two back. One of the Bracewells might have been shot!" Not to mention that his partner might well by lying on the floor in there bleeding.

"Yeah, yeah, I know! But my key's gotta be here somewhere!" Cass was turning his pockets wrong side out now as he feverishly searched for the key.

"Oh, never mind!" grunted Jim. He pushed the scar-faced man aside, yanked his lock pick from its hiding place under his lapel, and knelt before the door.

Beside him, Cass shook his head. "That won't do. It's a special lock, made especially to be pick-proof. You'll never get through it!"

"I haven't met the lock yet that I couldn't beat," Jim muttered. And if the lock pick wouldn't do it, there was always Plan B.

 **Act Four, Part Three**

Mama Bracewell gaped at her daughter for a stunned moment, then gave a laugh. "Lana _darling!_ You'll never shoot me!" she cooed.

"Don't push me, Mama. Give me the Apple!" She held out one hand.

On the floor, Artie gave up on his pretense of death and came to his knees, ready to jump at Miss Lana to knock her gun away. He took a deep breath, about to surge to his feet.

But Mama moved first. "Fine. _Here!"_ she cried, and flung the golden sphere right at Lana's face. With a yelp Lana ducked.

Just then Mama slammed into her, sending the derringer flying out through the open balcony doors and over the balustrade to fall to the hard ground three stories below.

Neither woman was paying any attention to that, however, as they grappled together, flailing at each other, tearing at each other. Nor were the pair currently aware of the golden Apple, which was now in imminent danger of being trampled under foot. For that matter, neither woman had noticed the curiously resurrected Mr Gordon, who found himself in danger as well from feminine feet as he crawled after the Apple, trying to recover the vexatious _objet d'art_ that was at the heart of all this mess.

His efforts were rewarded by a slippered foot suddenly fetching the Apple a smack that sent it skittering out of Artie's reach. He backed off quickly before the foot could give his head the same treatment, then crept around the end of the sofa to make another try, while above his head, the fight raged on.

And what a cat fight it was! Snarling, biting, kicking, hissing, along with the pulling of hair and the scratching of faces. The Bracewell ladies, _mère et fille_ , were apparently cognizant of nothing else in all the world around them but each other. Which was fine of course with Artie — so long as neither of them wound up stomping on him.

Or on the Apple. There it was, over by the balcony now. Artie set off to collect it…

But the brawl arrived there first. Just as he got a fingertip on the golden prize a foot kicked it away again, sending it spinning back towards the sofa once more. There it smacked into the side of the unfortunate Miss Polly and glanced off, going up under the table that bore yet the remnants of that never-finished supper.

Fine. Artie headed back that way, still completely unnoticed by the distaff combatants.

Unnoticed also in the unladylike din of battle was the fact that someone was outside the door trying to bash it in. Even Artie never heard the repeated crashes against the door; he was too busy trying once more to lay hold of the Apple before either of the women could remember to scoop it up for herself. It had come to rest this time right under the table, and Artie stretched out a hand to grab it…

 _Smash!_ Over went the table as the Bracewells slammed into it, then spun away again in their grimly determined _pas de deux_ _._ Artie ducked as crockery and uneaten food showered down around him, then glanced up again to spot the Apple.

There it was, by the door! Artie set out yet again, dodging the ferocious Bracewells as he made a beeline for the golden orb. "This time I have you," he muttered under his breath, his hand a mere hairsbreadth away.

 _Crash!_ The door sprang open almost in Artie's face to admit two men, one of them James West leading with his shoulder, while the other, just behind Jim, was a man Artie recognized instantly although he'd never laid eyes on him before in all his life: the man Miss Hippolyta had described, the one with that set of livid scratch marks adorning his cheek!

And as the scar-faced man stumbled in, his foot collided with the golden Apple, sending the precious orb skittering across the floor once again, this time heading straight for the open balcony.

"My Apple!" cried Atalanta, spotting it. With a determined elbow she knocked her mother aside and sprinted after the beautiful Apple, running as speedily and gracefully as a gazelle.

In her haste she failed to notice what everyone else in the room saw clearly, for immediately the voices of all four of the others rang out with variations on the theme of "Atalanta, no!" All four scrambled after her, trying to catch her, to stop her. But Lana Bracewell, with her eyes fixed only on the swiftly bowling Apple, followed it unswervingly even as it shot through the French doors, scudded across the balcony itself, and bounded out between a pair of newels into the open air. Atalanta, with a bound of her own, cried out a joyous, "Mine!" as she cleared the balustrade.

The next instant the word turned into a wail of despair, shortly to be cut off by her fatal meeting with the cold hard ground below.

"No!" screamed the remaining woman, an amazing duplicate of the now-departed Miss Lana. The older version sprang for the French doors, and it was only because James West dashed after her and yanked her back from the balustrade that she failed to tumble from the balcony herself.

Another voice also rose in horror; another body pelted for the balcony, this one to be stopped by Artie's expeditious stratagem of flinging himself under the scarred man's feet, sending him sprawling onto the floor. A trice later Artie had the man cuffed and was sitting on his back. And from there he smiled up at his partner and greeting him with, "Well, James my boy! It's high time you arrived. What kept you?"

"A few old Trojans," Jim rejoined. "And from the state of this room, I'd say you've got quite a story to tell, Artie — starting with how you got that powder-burnt hole in your shirt."

"All in good time, James, all in good time. But first, let me introduce you to the dear lady you're holding in your arms: none other than…"

"Mrs Helena Bracewell," Jim finished for him. "I guessed."

"And didn't need your other two guesses either," Artie nodded. With a grin at the shock on Mama Bracewell's face at finding the agent to be alive, he added, "This is a day for resurrections, I'd say."

"Resurrections indeed!" Mama stormed at him angrily. "How can you be so, so _callous_ , so flippant, tossing jokes back and forth while my Lana, my lovely Lana…" She slumped against Mr West, beginning to weep.

"Oh, don't give me that, lady!" Artie fired back. "Your Lana, your lovely Lana, tried her darnedest to put a bullet through my middle, and was primed and ready to do the same for you — not to mention what she wanted me to do to her sister. So excuse me if I decline to join you in your deep mourning for the charming Miss Lana, madam!"

Mrs Bracewell's face twisted into a glare of fury at that audacious agent, only to be replaced a heartbeat later by sudden dawning hope. "Resurrections, you say!" she gasped. "Resurrections! And could you mean, could you possibly mean… Why, if _you_ are alive and not dead, then… what of my Polly? Is she…? Is she…?"

As if on cue, there came a heavy groan from the floor by the sofa, followed by a grumble of, "Ohhh, my aching head!" which then carried on into an exclamation of, "But how strange! This doesn't look a bit like the Elysian Fields. Where am I? And where's Father?"

 **End of Act Four**


	15. Tag

**Tag**

"You mean to tell me that Miss Hippolyta actually thought she was going to open her eyes on the mythological Elysian Fields with her mother and father there to welcome her, and was disappointed to find herself alive?"

"That seems to be the gist of it, Jim. Of course, waking up to find that her dear departed mother hadn't departed after all was at best a mixed blessing, considering that her, ah, loving sister in fact _had_."

"Not to mention learning that Mother Dearest was the real mastermind behind the whole plot."

"Yeah, and especially that she was the one who had had Papa Dearest killed."

"Tragedy all around," Jim nodded.

"I'll say." Artie sighed as the pair of agents watched the hotel's security guards — brand new security guards, hired that very morning — busily dismantling the display of the Bracewell treasures, packing everything away into the four cases that were to be taken to the Denver Museum. Professor Bracewell, it seemed, had made prior arrangements to donate the items to that worthy institution once the scientific conference was over, and as it was now midday Sunday and the conference had in fact concluded, Hippolyta was wasting no time in carrying out her father's wishes. She bustled about the display room, barking out orders, getting into everyone's way, all the while pointedly ignoring the two Secret Service men.

"You know what tipped me off, Jim?" Artie added.

"You mean to the fact that Lana really was the evil sister Hippolyta kept insisting she was?"

"Mm-hmm. It was this." From a pocket Artie produced the square of lavender cloth he'd found in the garden. "Lana insisted to me that this was her sister's hankie, and that it was proof she'd been the woman who had had their poor old father killed. And yet…" He shook the cloth out to its full size. "Look at the creases, Jim."

"Right angle creases, ironed in. So?"

"So it dawned on me that every time I'd seen Hippolyta use a handkerchief, she'd pulled from her cuff a cloth that was blue, not lavender, and that it was folded into a fat little triangle instead of a square. But this…" He fingered the cloth, then shook his head. "If this was ever folded into a triangle, where are the creases to show it?"

"And from that you guessed it belonged to Mama Bracewell?"

Artie laughed. "No, no, Jim! That little surprise caught me flat on my back, let me tell you."

Jim grinned. "Pretty much literally, I bet."

"As a matter of fact, yes." Artie folded up the hankie and tucked it away again. "But what about you? How did you figure out which sister was the bad one?"

"Simple. I took one look at Dermot Parrish pointing a gun at me and saw that the man at his side had scratches on his face just like Hippolyta had described."

"Hmph. Not very smart of Parrish to keep _him_ around."

"He'd been keeping Cass under wraps all day. By the way, turns out that Cass is only the man's nickname. His real name is the sort that Miss Hippolyta would probably have a conniption fit over."

"Oh? What's that?"

With a smile Jim told him.

Artie stared at him. "Oh, you're kidding me! What kind of parents would name their son Pollux Castor?"

"They didn't, Artie. His name is Paul… _X_ _…_ Castor. But you can imagine what Hippolyta would say if she heard his name."

"Yeah, she'd hear it the same way I did. More tie-ins with ancient Greek mythology!"

The agents fell silent then and for a few moments simply watched the new guards packing up the displays. Then, with a sigh, Artie said, "Well, might as well get this over with, huh? You still have it, Jim?"

"Right here." Jim pulled from his jacket pocket an all-too familiar golden orb and passed it to Artie.

"Thanks. _Ahem_ _—_ Miss Hippolyta!" Artie started towards the Amazon, who instantly found something of great importance to be doing in another part of the room.

"Miss Hippolyta!" Artie called again. Once more she strode off in another direction, this time to harangue a guard for putting a golden plate into its case right side up instead of upside-down.

"Miss Hippolyta!" Artie's voice rang out in a bellow this third time as he called her name, even as Jim strode over to catch the big woman by the arm and spin her around to face them.

She glared down at the pair, fury in her eyes. "I'm astounded that the two of you have the audacity to face me," she glowered haughtily. "Particularly after the way you lied to me!"

Artie's mouth fell open. "Lied! To _you!"_

"After everything that's happened with your family this weekend, the thing you're the most angry about is that we lied?" asked Jim.

"Yes!" she wheeled on him even as she jabbed a finger towards Artemus. " _He lied!_ He pretended you both believed me when patently you did not, and what's more, he told me I'd been poisoned — and that proved not to be the case either!"

"And you're angry about that?" Artie asked incredulously.

"What, you'd prefer that he really had poisoned you?" Jim chimed in.

"Yes! _No!_ I… Oh, I…" Hippolyta sputtered to a halt, gave a snort of rage, and finished with, "Just leave!"

"Oh, far be it from the queen of the Amazons to show a modicum of gratitude!" Artie shot back hotly. And as she shrieked out, "Gratitude! For what?" he overrode her objection with, "Yes, gratitude! Of course, gratitude! Don't you even get it? Perhaps I overstated matters a little when I said you'd been poisoned; it's not really a lie when you consider that most knock-out drugs are toxic in higher concentrations, though I was very careful not to overdose you. But leaving that aside, when I said you'd been poisoned, I wasn't saying it for your benefit; I was saying it so your sister would overhear, so she would believe you were dead. Don't you understand? Once I saw that she was determined to get _someone_ to do you in, I figured I'd better pretend to do it, or else she'd go sweet-talk some other guy into doing the job, some poor slob who'd kill you for real. _That's_ why I put something in your wine — not to kill you, but to protect you — from her!"

"I… I… Oh…" said Hippolyta, suddenly uncharacteristically meek. "You… you did that for me?"

"Yes!" snapped Artie. "And then what did you do but instantly turn around and lie to _me!"_

" _I_ lied?" She looked him up and down, then half turned away. "Why, whatever do you mean?" she asked evasively.

"I mean _this!"_ said Artie, and he slammed something down onto the top of the closest display case, nearly denting the polished wood.

"That," she echoed, barely glancing at the object he'd just clobbered the cabinet with. Again she sought to turn away.

"Look at it, Hippolyta," said James West. "In fact, examine it. Tell us what it is." And he picked up the golden ball and forced it into the woman's hand.

She dropped it onto the cabinet again as if it burned her. "It's the Apple, of course. I suppose you retrieved it after, er…"

"After Atalanta chased it to her death, yes," said Jim bluntly.

"But look at it," Artie insisted, picking it up and holding it before her eyes. "This is the golden Apple that fell from your balcony last night. This is the sphere of gold that I just now smacked onto this hard wooden cabinet. What's wrong with this picture?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes, nor Jim's either.

"Hippolyta," said Jim. "It's still round. Still perfectly round!"

"A ball of real gold that had taken that kind of punishment wouldn't still be a ball anymore, now would it, Hippolyta? Hmm? You tell us," Artie persisted.

"This isn't the real Apple at all, is it?" said Jim.

"Yeah, this is the fake one," Artie added. "The one I examined in this very room and declared to be a clever copy. This is the Apple you've been carrying around in your bus… er, that is, in your clothing. The one you begged me with your dying breath to make sure Atalanta wouldn't get. You claimed you were entrusting me with it, but you didn't trust me at all, did you?"

"And why should I?" she snapped back. "I knew what you were doing, that you were Lana's little puppet, doing her evil will. If you lied to me to make her believe I was dying when I wasn't, well, I was lying to you to make her believe this _thing_ ," and she grabbed the fake Apple and threw it to the floor, "was the real treasure when it wasn't!" She glared down at the men. "So if that makes us even, so be it!"

Jim bent to pick up the false Apple. "She would have figured it out eventually, you know, that this one was bogus."

"Yes," said Hippolyta. "But by that time the Denver Museum would have taken charge of Father's collection, meaning that…"

Artie clicked his fingers. "Meaning that the real Apple would be safe in their hands, out of her reach!" He and Jim exchanged a glance.

"Are you telling us," said Jim, "that you stood there and slipped the real Apple into the display case instead of this one, with all of us looking on?"

She smirked proudly. "And none of you the wiser! I certainly did. And not a one of you ever guessed. You knew it was the fake in the display case, so why look for the real one there?"

Artie's mouth hung open. Then he began to laugh. "Great jumping balls of Saint Elmo's fire, Miss Hippolyta, but you sure pulled the wool over all our eyes!"

"What, like it was hard?" she rejoined. "And now, if this engaging little conversation is over, I see that Mr Romney Wordsworth of the museum has arrived. We have much to discuss, he and I. As for you two: good-bye, and good riddance!" And with that she swept out of West's and Gordon's lives for good. They watched as the hulking figure of Hippolyta Bracewell descended upon a meek little man with a face and demeanor that reminded them amazingly of…

Artie shook his head. "No, it can't be."

"He sure looks like him though," Jim observed.

"Yeah, he does." Artie gave a look askance. "Hey, Jim, I know I said last night that this was a day for resurrections, but… Achilles Bracewell really _was_ dead, wasn't he?"

"He certainly was," Jim affirmed.

They watched as the remarkably familiar Romney Wordsworth smiled up at the Amazon and proffered his arm to her, which she accepted so graciously she almost looked like a different woman. Off the pair went, happily supervising the transporting of the treasures to the little man's museum.

"Whatever else he is," Artie murmured, "that man's certainly a lion-tamer."

"You mean a harpy-tamer."

"Yeah. That too." He glanced around one last time. "Well, James, I guess our work here is done. Ready to go?"

"Yep." Jim led the way past all the workmen and out the door, only to pause and call back, "Hey, Artie!"

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Have an apple!" With a twinkle in his eye, Jim flipped the not-so-golden apple towards his partner.

Artie caught it, hesitated a second, then shook his head. "No thanks, pal. I'll pass. I've seen enough of this thing to last me a lifetime, believe me!" With a shudder he dropped the apple into the nearest display case, glad to have it out of his life permanently.

And glad to say the same of one Miss Hippolyta Bracewell.

 **FIN**


End file.
